a 


FROM   THE   LIBRARY   OF 

REV.    LOUIS    FITZGERALD    BENSON,   D.  D. 


BEQUEATHED    BY   HIM   TO 

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PRINCETON  THEOLOGICAL  SEMINARY 


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THE 


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||        NORTH   AMERICAN 

1 1 

llQUARTERLY     MAGAZINE. 


1 

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4 


No.  XXXIII. 


JANUARY,  1836. 


Vol.  VII. 


Yldiu  a  xp»ve<s"  uvoti  x«A#  tuzv  ftotuv  f*i\A.tjc  ctcfoZqmw. 

Arltuo$.  TiafAMi  Xevgott. 


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i 


EDITED  BY  SUMNER  LINCOLN  FAIRFIELD. 


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1836. 


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Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2012  with  funding  from 

Princeton  Theological  Seminary  Library 


http://archive.org/details/englishsacredpoeOOphil 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS. 


-»^3©cH«- 


The  Forensic  and  Parliamentary  Character  of  Daniel  Web- 
ster.    By  James  H.  Lanman,         - 1 

The  Last  Night  of  Pompeii.     By  the  Editor,   -        -        -  12 

The  Runaway  Match.     By  James  Dixon,      -  37 

Cuvier's  Theory  of  the  Earth,           ......  41 

The  Murder  of  Rutland.     By  Miss  Beasley,      ....  49 

Victor  Hugo's  Poems,    ---------  50 

The  Banners.     By  Mrs  Mosby,               ......  60 

Cousin's  Elements  of  Psychology.     By  the  Rev.  Dr  Beasley,  ib> 

Lines — Serious,       - 75 

The  Poetaster,       ..........  76 

Sonnets — The  Poetical  Character.     By  the  Editor,          -  80 

A  Dissertation  on  Sublimity,       -------  jb. 

The  German  Poets, -  86 

Julia  Leorani,  the  Belle  of  Rome,     ------  95 

Love's  Monody.     By  the  Editor,          ------  106 

The  Captivity  of  John  Howard  Payne  by  the  Georgia  Guard.  By 

the  Editor,     ----------  107 

English  Sacred  Poetry, 124 

Epigram.     By  the  Editor, -  159 

The  Prima  Donna:   A  Tale  of  Italy,          .....  160 

Tedium  Vitm.     By  the  Editor,            ......  173 

The  Origin  and  Power  of  Genius.     By  the  Editor,            -        -  174 
History  of  the  Cagots,  the  Cretins  and  Goitres  of  the  Alps 

and  Pyrenees.     Idem,       ........  134 

A  Funeral  Hymn.     By  Mrs  Moodie, 188 

Critical  Notices, 

Paul  Ulric  ;  or  the  Adventures  of  an  Enthusiast,        -        -        -  189 

A  History  of  Medicine, •-  190 

Poems;  by  Mrs  L.  H.  Sigourney,     ......  194 

Correspondence  et  Opuscules  inedites  de  Paul  Louis  Courier,      -  195 

Tutti  Frutti, 197 

Alnwick  Castle,  with  other  Poems,           .....  jj^ 

An  Introduction  to  Languages,  literary  and  philosophical,            -  198 

The  Congressional  Directory  for  1836,       .....  200 

The  Yankee,  a  Tale  of  Common  New  England  Life,          -        -  ib. 


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TftE 

NORTH  AMERICAN 
QUARTERLY     MAGAZINE. 

No.  XXXIII.  JANUARY,  1836.  Vol.  VII. 


UVHV.3J.  rmi  mat  l  was  icany  engageu  m  any  plot  01  any  sun.,  *  a..»  £",!«>««*«_ 
never  was  believed  by  those  who  have  committed  this  outrage  !  What  could  I 
gain  by  the  Cherokees?  Every  moment  I  have  passed  in  their  country  has  been 
a  loss  to  me  and  an  inconvenience.  Nothing,  which  they  can  offer,  can  render 
me  service;  and  men  do  not  contrive  treason  where  they  can  gain  no  advantage. 
I  have  been  swayed,  in  the  very  little  I  have  gathered  regarding  the  Cherokees, 
by  a  pure  and  disinterested  wish  to  render  my  own  country  service,  in  leading  it 
to  be  simply  just  to  theirs;  and  I  have  wished  to  supply  myself  with  such  mate- 
rial, that  the  fairness,  which  it  might  be  impossible  for  me  to  excite  for  them, 
from  present  legislation,  I  might  myself  bestow  on  them  in  future  history.  In 
party  questions  I  take  no  interest.  I  repeat,  again  and  again,  I  have  looked  into 
this  matter  as  a  philanthropist,  not  as  a  politician. 

People  of  Georgia!  I  appeal  to  you.  I  came  among  you  as  a  fellow-country- 
man. I  came  to  make  myself  acquainted  with  your  history  and  your  character, 
and  with  the  numberless  natural  beauties,  and  with  the  countless  riches  of  your 
domain.  I  came  under  the  guarantee  of  the  compact  between  the  sister  States 
of  the  Republic,  which  secures  to  the  citizens  of  each,  unobstructed  communica- 
tion with  all.  I  came,  relying  upon  the  spirit  of  hospitality  which  has  distin- 
guished the  South.  I  have  told  you  how  I  have  been  treated.  If  any  member 
of  the  Republic  has  been  especially  remarkable  for  her  resistance  to  the  intrusion 
of  one  State  upon  the  rights  of  another,  it  is  Georgia.  How  then  can  I  believe 
that  she  will  uphold  her  officers,  who  have  in  the  most  glaring  and  the  coarsest 
manner,  been  guilty  of  such  an  intrusion?  I  do  not,  therefore,  identify  the  State 
with  the  wrongs  I  have  received.  But  under  these  wrongs,  I  cannot  again  enter 
the  State  until  its  people  do  themselves  the  justice  to  tell  me  that  I  have  judged 
them  fairly,  in  believing  they  feel  themselves  insulted  by  the  insults  which  have 
been  heaped,  in  their  name,  upon  the  independence  of  a  neighbouring  power, 
and  upon  the  Constitution,  our  common  protector, — in  the  person  of  a  stranger, 
a  countryman,  and  a  friend. 

My  fellow-citizens  throughout  my  Native  Land!  To  all  of  you,  alike,  I  ap- 
peal, for  there  is  not  one  in  our  Republic  to  whom  this  case  is  not  of  vital  import. 
It  is  not  a  party,  it  is  an  universal,  question,  and  I  doubt  not  but  the  Chief  Magis- 
trate of  the  Republic,  whose  government  has  been  prophaned  by  being  made  by- 
subalterns,  to  seem  the  source  of  the  wrong,  will  be  foremost  in  declaring  its 
enormity.  Insulting  inquisitions, — domiciliary  visits, — midnight  intrusions  into 
the  sanctuary  of  homes, — seizures  by  armed  men  of  private  papers, — the  impri- 
sonment and  the  secreting  of  citizens,  without  disclosure  either  of  the  charge  or  of 
the  accuser, — contempt  of  the  boundaries  of  States, — mockery  of  the  hallowed 
privileges  of  the  Constitution, — all  these,  the  worst  deeds  of  the  basest  despotism, 
— have  been  perpetrated  already  in  the  instance  now  before  you,  and  if  you  do 
not  rise,  like  men,  and  declare  such  things  shall  not  be  suffered,  not  a  citizen 
among  you  can  say  he  sleeps  in  safety.  This  is  no  idle  declamation.  It  has 
happened  to  me,  and  it  may  happen  to  any  one  of  you:  the  rubicon  has  been 
passed.  But  think  not  of  me:  think  of  yourselves,  think  of  those  most  dear  to 
you,  to  whom  you  would  bequeath  the  freedom  you  inherited.  Not  for  personal 
chagrin,  but  for  the  honour  of  our  country,  I  will  tell  you, — and,  Oh!  let  not  pos- 
terity echo  the  assertion  as  a  prophecy! — if  tamely  you  look  on,  and  see  these 
things  unmoved, — I  care  not  for  proscriptions  nor  for  bayonets;  neither  the 
Guards  of  Georgia,  nor  the  denunciations  of  reckless,  wily,  and  insidious  hire- 


English  Sacred  Poetry.  [January, 

1  fright  me  into  silence, — fori  will  tell  you,  and  with  my  latest  breath: 
you  behold  these  things,  you  arc  only  slaves,  heartless,  abject  slaves, 

oithy  of  the  immortal  ancestors,  who  bravely  fought,  and  nobly  died  to 

eir  country  free." 

Such  is  the  earnest  appeal — perhaps  the  last — of  a  most  amiable,  gift- 
ed and  deserving  man ;  and  such  have  been  his  trials  and  persecutions 
among  a  lawless  horde  unable  to  appreciate  his  excellencies  of  heart  or 
mind,  while  his  near  relative — a  mere  man  of  the  world — a  common  man 
— riots  in  affluence  acquired  by  chance  and  enjoyed  without  dignity  or 
honour.     Terrible,  indeed,  is  the  poet's  lot  in  a  land  like  ours — the  em- 
pire of  utilitarians,  stockjobbers,  schemers,  fanatics  and  impostors.   His 
bread  must  be  earned  by  the  severest  of  all  possible  toil — and  yet  he 
must  be  told  that  at  the  best,  he  is  a  beneficiary  of  fools,  who  boast  of 
their  charity  in  refusing  to  pay  their  just  and  rightful  debts,  and  the  butt 
of  insolent  knaves  who  exult  in  their  only  talent — the  ability  to  black- 
guard and  blaspheme.     When  evils  accumulate,  he    must    bear  them 
alone  and  unaided ;   when  a  gleam  of  prosperity  glances  across  his  dark- 
ened path,  his  sunshine  friends  rush  out  to  bask  in  its  radiance  and  in- 
sult the  giver.     On  the  return  of  Mr  Payne  to  his  Native  Land,  he  was 
feasted  and  toasted  and  biographized,  until  the  modest  man  sickened 
over  the  selfish  display  ;  but  the  novelty  passed — new  opportunities  of 
Apician  enjoyment  occurred — and   the  American  dramatist  was  super- 
ceded by  the  foreign  mountebank.     Then  his  talents  were  questioned 
bv  those  who  had  no  talents,  and  his  feelings  were  outraged  by  the  au- 
tochthones— the  earthborn  slaves  of  animal  desires  and  grovelling  pro- 
pensities.    The   only  reward  he  ever  received  from  the  Land  of  his 
Birth  was  called  public  charity,    and   native  sycophants  joined  foreign 
miscreants   in  ridiculing  his   pretensions  and   assailing   his  character. 
Then  he  went  forth  alone — on  a  lonely  and  perilous  journey,  confiding 
in  his  lofty  cause,  and  resolved  to  depend  solely  upon  himself.    And  how 
many  have  been  just  or  generous  enough  to  aid  him  in  his  noble  design  ? 
Who,  of  all  who  swilled  the  festival  wine  in  his  honour,  on  his  first  ar- 
rival on  the  western  shores,  has  arisen  to  vindicate  the  wronged  and 
justify  the  innocent  when  falsely  accused  ?     Not  one.     When  the  feast 
ended,  the  sentiments  of  friendship  expired,  and  the  guest  was  forgot- 
ten.    We — (and  the  fact  is  proclaimed  with  a  just  though  not  ostenta- 
tious pride) — we  are  the  only  one  who  have  remembered  the  friend  we 
never  flattered,  and  vindicated  the  wronged,  whose  prosperity  we  never 
partook.     Our  duty,  our  pleasure,  is  fulfilled.     In  absence  and  in  dan- 
ger— under  trial,  solitude  and  calumny — we  have  espoused  an  unhon- 
oured  but  a  noble  cause — and  now  we  have  no  motive  to  sorrow  or  re- 
gret.    The  wrongs  of  John  Howard  Payne  have  been  unfolded  to  our 
countrymen,  and  if  not  by  the  envious  living,  yet  by  an  impartial  pos- 
terity will  thev  be  remembered  and  avenged. 


ENGLISH   SACRED    POETRY. 

It  has  been  said  that  the  flowers  of  Parnassus  cannot  thrive  in  the 
garden  of  Religion,  that  the  soil  of  Paradise  is  unfit  for  the  rearing  of 
these  tender  plants  :  and  that  they  can  grow  only  in  the  gory  plains  of 
war,  or  the  fairy  scenes  of  fiction.  An  attempt  to  enforce  or  illustrate  the 
Bible  with  the  graces  of  poetry  discovers,  in  the  estimation    of  many 


1836.]  English  Sacred  Poetry.  125 

critics,  a  taste  deplorably  vitiated  and  depraved.     Others  reject  it  with 
abhorrence,  and  are  almost  shocked  at  it  as  impious. 

Now  it  is  true  that  the  invocation  of  Apollo,  or  the  Maids  of  Helicon, 
at  the  commencement  of  a  christian  poem,  would  not  only  be  impious, 
but  absurd  and  disgusting  in  the  highest  degree.  Examples  may,  in- 
deed, be  adduced  from  admired  "Devotion's  bards,"  wherein  the  names 
of  the  heathen  deities,  or  some  mythological  allusions,  have  been  inju- 
diciously introduced.  In  that  fine  fragment,  for  example,  of  Kirk 
White,  in  which  Satan  is  represented  as  giving  his  "  bold  compeers"  an 
account  of  the  failure  of  his  attempt  upon  Christ,  and  of  the  sad  disas- 
ters which  befel  him,  in  consequence  of  that  attempt,  we  meet  with  an 
instance  of  this  kind. 

"  The  sidelong  volley  met  my  swift  career, 
And  smote  me  earthward.    Jove  himself  might  quake 
At  such  a  fall !" 

Here  is  evidently  a  gross  impropriety,  for,  to  say  nothing  of  the  in- 
troduction of  a  mere  imaginary  deity  in  an  affair  of  such  importance,  he 
who  had  once  been  an  angel  of  light  could  not  be  supposed  to  be  igno- 
rant that  Jove  was  nothing  more  than  a  name.  Besides,  the  way  in 
which  Jove  is  mentioned  seems  to  intimate  that  he  was  a  being  of  supe- 
riour  prowess  to  Satan  himself,  which  the  prince  of  the  infernal  powers, 
he  who  had  dared  to  cope  with  Omnipotence,  could  not  be  very  ready 
to  allow.  But  does  it  hence  follow  that  the  subject  itself  was  ill  chosen, 
and  incapable  of  poetical  ornament  without  having  recourse  to  classical 
fiction?  This  question  receives  its  best  answer  in  the  poem  itself;  in 
the  boldness  of  its  imagery,  and  the  beautiful  simplicity  of  its  alle- 
gories. 

The  abovementioned  objection  to  sacred  poetry  was,  perhaps,  first 
started  by  Boileau.     He  tells  us, 

"  De  la  foi  d'un  Chretien  les  mysteres  terribles 
D'ornamens  egayez  ne  sont  point  susceptibles." 

The  Christian  faith's  dread  mysteries  refuse 
The  ornamental  trappings  of  the  muse. 

In  a  country  where  levity  and  fashionable  folly  prevailed  as  they  then 
did  in  France — and  at  a  time,  too,  when  religion  was  buried  under  the 
clouds  of  mysticism,  and  everything  sacred  was  viewed  with  a  super- 
stitious dread — such  a  declaration  was  not  astonishing,  especially  as  it 
comes  from  a  person  who,  with  all  his  wit  and  learning,  had  very  ina- 
dequate views  of  the  mysteries  of  which  he  was  speaking,  and  who,  it 
is  to  be  feared,  left  the  world  very  little  better  than  he  found  it.  But 
that  Dr  Johnson  could  entertain  such  an  opinion  is  more  surprising. 
He  thus  objects  to  devotional  poetry  in  a  strain  similar  to  that  of  Boileau : 
"  The  paucity  of  its  topics  enforces  perpetual  repetition,  and  the  sanc- 
tity of  the  matter  rejects  the  ornaments  of  figurative  diction."  Is  it 
possible  that  any  man  who  has  taken  an  ample  survey  of  the  Divine  per- 
fections, or  cast  an  eye  over  the  diversified  landscape  of  Divine  good- 
ness, which  is  exhibited  in  the  recovery  of  fallen  man,  can  talk  of  pau- 
city of  topics  ?  Is  it  possible  that  any  one  who  has  read  the  rapturous 
strains  of  Isaiah,  or  the  sublime  songs  of  Jesse's  son,  can  say  that  reli- 
gion rejects  the  ornaments  of  figurative  diction  ?  Though  Dr  Johnson 
was  a  man  of  gigantic  talents,  and  a  Colossus  of  philological  learning, 
yet  he  was  not  distinguished  for  liberality  of  sentiment,  or  fervour  of 


126  English  Sacred  Poetry.  [January, 

devotion;  and  with  Cowper,  who  certainly  excelled  him  in  both  these 
respects,  we  question  the  correctness  of  his  taste.  To  make  Divine 
truth  palatable  to  those  who  have  a  radical  dislike  to  it,  is,  indeed,  out 
of  the  power  of  language  or  of  poetry.  They  cannot  desire  to  see  God 
set  forth  under  his  various  attributes  of  power,  wisdom,  justice,  or  even 
of  mercy.  They  cannot,  with  complacency,  read  anything  which  treats 
immediately  of  the  invaluable  blessings  of  salvation  ;  and  it  must  be  re- 
membered that  for  such  persons,  chiefly,  Johnson  was  writing.  If  he 
had  perused  with  a  candid  and  unbiassed  mind,  what  Cowley,  Watts, 
and  even  Blackmore  have  said  upon  this  subject,  he  might,  probably,  have 
modified  his  opinion,  or,  at  least,  have  spoken  with  more  candour. 
After  a  deserved  eulogium  which  he  passes  on  the  second  of  these 
writers,  as  a  scholar  and  a  divine,  he  will  hardly  be  thought  to  have  done 
justice  to  him  as  a  poet,  when  he  ranks  him  among  those  with  whom 
youth  and  ignorance  may  be  safely  placed.  In  the  Horae  Lyricae, 
there  are  some  pieces  which  would  have  added  to  the  laurels  of  the 
moralist  himself. 

Among  the  rigidly  pious  part  of  mankind,  there  are  many  who  have 
conceived  such  an  irreconcilable  aversion  to  the  enchantments  of  poetry, 
that  even  Truth  herself  meets  with  but  a  cold  reception  from  them,  if 
arrayed  in  the  habiliments  of  verse.  They  consider  religion  as  of  too 
grave  a  character  to  appear  without  disparagement  in  that  fanciful  attire. 
They  can  hardly  acquit  of  levity  and  impertinence  those  who  endeavour 
to  paint  her  amiable  features  in  the  lively  colours  of  poetical  diction, 
and,  at  best,  they  deem  all  such  endeavours  no  better  than  trifling  and 
puerile  amusements. 

This  too  general  dislike  of  poetry  among  such  persons  arises,  per- 
haps, in  a  considerable  measure,  from  the  unworthy  use  to  which  it  has 
been  converted  by  irreligious  men,  though,  in  many,  it  may  be  owing 
to  a  natural  deficiency  of  taste  and  sensibility.     It  is  said  of  Pope, 
that  though  his  ear  was  eminently  well  tuned  in  judging  the  harmony 
of  numbers,  he  had  so  mean  an  idea  of  music,  as  to  think  it  below  the 
dignity  of  human  nature.     It  is  requisite,  therefore,  that  a  man  should 
have  a  taste  for  any  art  or  science,  before  he  presumes  to  give  his  judg- 
ment upon  it.     Let  not,  then,  those  "  foes  to  song,"  who  are  destitute 
of  poetical  qualifications,  reprove  their  neighbours  who  are  occasionally 
inclined  to  take  a  draught  at  the  fountain  of  the  Muses.     That  fountain 
has  contracted  no  inherent  contamination  from  the  polluted  lips  which, 
in  different  ages,  have  sipped  its  stream :  nor  are  its  waters  the  less 
pure,  because  they  have  sometimes  flowed  through  the  channels  of  pro- 
fligacy and  vice.     Even  the  consecrated  censers  of  old  were  not  unfit- 
ted for  holy  uses,  by  having  been  once  made  the  receptacles  of  unhal- 
lowed fire,  or  by  having  passed  through  the  hands  of  profane  rebels: 
they  needed  only  to  be  cleansed  and  fashioned  anew,  in  order  to  serve 
those  purposes  for  which  they  were  originally  intended.     The  pearl  of 
truth  has  not  lost  any  of  its  brilliancy  by  having  been  once  covered  with 
the  dust  of  errour  or  superstition.     And  though  the  divine  art  of  poetry 
has  been  too  often  employed  to  kindle  the  incense  of  flattery  to  the  idol 
of  human  power,  or  to  fan  the  flames  of  licentiousness  in  the  youthful 
and  inexperienced  breast,  yet  poetry  itself  remains  the  same  as  ever. 
True,  the  Muse  has  had  cause 

"  to  blush  at  her  degenerate  sons, 


Retain'd  by  sense  to  plead  her  filthy  cause, 
To  raise  the  low,  to  magnify  the  mean, 
And  subtilize  the  gross  into  refin'd." 


1836.]  English  Sacred  Poetry.  127 

The  heathens  had  the  example  and  countenance  of  their  supposed 
gods  in  all  this,  and  are  therefore  entitled  to  pity  as  well  as  censure. 
But  what  excuse  will  be  alleged  for  the  improprieties  of  modern  writers, 
who  were  born  in  a  land  on  which  Revelation  sheds  its  benign  influence  1 

"  Can  powers  of  genius  exorcise  their  page, 
And  consecrate  enormity  with  song?" 

These  writers  have  not  been  content  to  follow  the  footsteps  of  their 
heathen  brethren.  In  all  the  compositions  of  the  Roman  and  Grecian 
bards  we,  for  the  most  part,  find  a  reverential  regard  paid  to  their  dei- 
ties, such  as  they  were.  But  these  men  have  often  dared  to  dart  the 
arrows  of  sarcastic  wit  against  Heaven  itself.  Nor  are  they  to  be  ex- 
empted from  censure,  who  have  given  loose  to  their  pens  in  invective, 
slanderous  abuse,  or  sycophantic  flattery. 

But  though  this  divine  art  has  been  prostituted  to  the  vilest  purposes, 
shall  we,  on  account  of 


these  inexpiable  stains 


Condemn  the  Muse  that  knows  her  dignity1?" 

Rather  let  us  endeavour  to  restore  poetry  to  that  station  which  it  origi- 
nally possessed.  Too  long  has  it  worn  the  insignia  of  the  Prince  of 
Darkness ;  it  is  time  that  it  should  return  to  a  higher  service.  That 
the  use  of  poetry  was  divine,  can  be  questioned  by  none  who  are  ac- 
quainted with  the  Sacred  Scriptures.  There  we  find  specimens  of 
exalted  composition,  and  touches  of  inimitable  skill,  written  ages  before 
the  names  of  Castalia,  Aganippe,  or  the  Nine  were  known  to  song. 
Bold  and  inconsiderate,  indeed,  must  he  be  who  ventures  indiscrimi- 
nately to  censure  that  pleasing  method  of  conveying  instruction  which 
the  Holy  Spirit  himself  has  seen  fit  so  frequently  to  employ.  What  is 
better  calculated  to  rouse  the  dying  embers  of  devotion,  and  to  kindle 
the  flame  of  zeal,  than  the  enraptured  voice  of  melody  ?  What  is  bet- 
ter suited  to  elevate  us  above  the  grovelling  scenes  of  time  and  sense, 
and  to  transport  us  to  those  regions  where  we  shall  sing  forever  the 
"  song  of  Moses  and  the  Lamb  ?"  Let  us  not  be  understood  to  insi- 
nuate that  Christianity  requires  the  recommendation  of  verse,  or  the 
elegancies  of  language.  We  only  lament  the  perversion  of  an  art, 
which,  under  the  controul  of  reason,  is  eminently  calculated  to  pro- 
mote the  cause  of  religion  and  virtue. 

The  most  ancient  compositions  which  have  reached  us  (with  the 
exception  of  the  Bible,  part  of  which  was  written  many  centuries  be- 
fore any  other  writings  now  extant,)  are  upon  subjects  connected  with 
religion.  In  those  early  days,  the  works  of  the  poets  were  the  only 
repositories  of  divine  knowledge ;  and  they  were  looked  up  to  by  the 
credulous  populace,  with  the  most  profound  veneration  and  awe.  What 
the  prophets  were  in  the  Jewish  church,  the  poets  were  considered  in 
the  heathen  world.    Hence,  in  ancient  times, 

"  The  sacred  name 


"  the  sacred  name 
Of  prophet  and  of  poet  was  the  same. 


Poetry  was  originally  instituted  for  holy  uses  ;  but  in  progress  of 
time,  as  the  light  of  Revelation  gradually  ceased  to  shine,  it  assumed  a 
new  character,  and  like  most  other  institutions  of  Divine  appointment, 
was  counterfeited  for  other  purposes.     For  what  is  there  in  the  worship 


128  English  Sacred  Poetry.  [January, 

of  Jehovah  which  has  not  been  imitated?  Has  not  the  evil  spirit  his 
temples,  his  priests,  his  sacrifices,  and  his  oracles?  Has  he  not  his 
worshippers  in  every  land ?  In  this  system  of  adoration,  music  and 
poetry  have  always  borne  a  very  prominent  part,  and  are  attended  with 
no  inconsiderable  effect;  but  how  superiour,  even  in  this  respect,  is  sa- 
cred poetry  to  profane  ? 

"  Where  shall  we  trace  through  all  the  page  profane, 
A  livelier  pleasure  and  a  purer  source 
Of  innocent  delight,  than  the  fair  book 
Of  Holy  Truth  presents?    For  ardent  youth 
The  sprightly  narrative ;  for  years  mature 
The  moral  document,  in  sober  robe 
Of  grave  philosophy  array'd?" 

This  "  Book  of  Truth"  contains  materials  at  once  the  most  curious 
and  instructive.  Are  we  charmed  with  the  histories  of  past  ages,  and 
the  narrations  of  extraordinary  events  ?  There  we  are  not  only  led  to 
converse  with  the  Antediluvian  Sages,  and  are  made  acquainted  with 
the  manners  and  customs  of  the  "  world  before  the  flood  :"  but  our  cu- 
riosity is  still  further  gratified  by  an  account  of  the  creation  of  the  world 
itself ;  in  which  all  is  wonderful — wonderful  without  a  parallel — and  yet 
conformable  to  the  strictest  laws  of  nature  and  verity. 

"  0,  scenes  surpassing  fable,  and  yet  true !" 

Scenes — in  comparison  of  which  the  fictitious  dreams  of  the  metamor- 
phoses, and  the  vain  Theogony  of  Hesiod,  ivere  they  true,  would  be  but 
uninteresting  tales.  At  the  mere  intimation  of  Jehovah's  will,  a  con- 
fused and  undigested  chaos  becomes  exquisite  symmetry  !  Heteroge- 
neous substances  are  divided  with  infinite  skill,  and  reciprocally  ope- 
rate upon  each  other  with  the  most  beneficial  influence  to  the  whole  ! 
What  a  noble  subject  would  this  be  for  a  true  poet !  Here  the  liveliest 
genius  might  expatiate  without  transgressing  the  boundaries  of  truth. 
The  Poet  should,  indeed,  always  remember  that  he  stands  on  holy 
ground,  and  that  he  is  not  wantonly  to  rush  beyond  its  limits,  to  cull 
flowers  uncongenial  with  the  nature  of  the  soil.  It  is  not  necessary  he 
should  do  so,  even  for  poetical  effect.  "  There  is  not  a  greater  lie  in 
all  the  poets,"  observes  Cowley,  "  than  that  lying  is  essential  to  good 
Poetry."  On  subjects  unconnected  with  religion,  it  is  true,  that  this 
assertion  needs  modification.  A  simple  statement  of  the  occurrences 
of  common  life  could  hardly  excite  that  liveliness  of  feeling  which  it  is 
the  peculiar  business  of  poetry  to  produce.  Scenes  of  dull  uniformity 
must,  therefore,  be  presented  under  new  aspects,  and  through  the  me- 
dium of  exaggeration,  and  be  enlivened  by  the  enchanting  hues  of  fic- 
tion. But  the  christian  poet  needs  not  have  recourse  to  such  expe- 
dients ;  in  the  Sacred  Word  he  will  find  an  inexhaustible  magazine  of  po- 
etical elements.  Where  shall  we  meet  with  a  detail  so  affecting  as  the 
simple  history  of  Joseph?  What  can  be  more  surprising  than  the 
events  in  Egypt,  and  the  passage  through  the  Red  Sea?  What  aston- 
ishing instances  of  power  and  providential  care  mark  every  step  of  the 
Journey  through  the  Wilderness ! — Nor  is  the  elevated  language  in 
which  these  events  have  been  celebrated  less  worthy  of  admiration. 
What  are  all  the  feats  of  Homer's  gods  and  heroes,  compared  with  the 
wondrous  deeds  enumerated  in  the  Song  of  Moses  ?  and  what  is  the 
language  in  which  they  are  expressed,  to  that  of  the  sacred  penman  ? 


1836.]  English  Sawed  Poetry.  129 

This  triumphant  song  is  not  only  far  more  sublime  than  any  uninspired 
writing,  but  likewise  by  far  the  most  ancient  poetical  effusion  with 
which  we  are  acquainted.  The  retreat  of  the  ten  thousand  Greeks  has 
always  been  considered  a  most  arduous  enterprize,  and  is  immortalized 
by  the  pen  of  one  of  the  most  elegant  writers  of  antiquity ;  but  when 
viewed  in  comparison  with  the  exodos  of  Israel  from  Egypt  into  Ca- 
naan, it  loses  half  its  interest. 

Nor  is  the  sacred  soil  less  fertile  in  subjects  for  the  epic  than  for  the 
lyric  muse.  Who  is  better  calculated  to  be  the  hero  of  a  poem  than 
Moses  or  Joshua,  Sampson  or  David  ?  What  achievements  so  glorious 
as  those  which  they  performed,  who  "  through  faith  subdued  kingdoms, 
wrought  righteousness,  obtained  promises,  stopped  the  mouths  of  lions, 
quenched  the  violence  of  fire,  escaped  the  edge  of  the  sword,  out  of 
weakness  were  made  strong,  waxed  valiant  in  fight,  turned  to  flight  the 
armies  of  the  aliens  ?"  The  eventful  life  of  the  son  of  Jesse  would 
especially  furnish  a  most  noble  subject  for  a  divine  poem.  The  frag- 
ment of  the  Davideis,  imperfect  as  it  is,  and  marked  with  numerous 
blemishes,  affords  a  specimen  of  what  might  be  done  by  a  man  equal 
to  such  a  task,  and  who  would  devote  himself  to  its  performance. 

It  is  true  that  Milton  has  chosen  the  loftiest  and  most  august  theme  of 
all ;  and  has  built  upon  it  such  a  monument,  as  abundantly  proves  the 
infinite  advantages  which  a  bard,  enlightened  by  Revelation,  has  over 
the  most  exalted  of  the  heathen  poets.  While,  then,  we  have  the 
works  of  Milton,  (to  say  nothing  of  the  poetical  parts  of  Scripture  itself,) 
why  should  we  endeavour  to  persuade  ourselves  that  divine  subjects 
are  unsuitable  to  the  genius  of  poetry  ?  Of  the  drama,  also,  which  has 
in  every  age  been  admired,  the  Sacred  Volume  affords  some  beautiful 
specimens.  The  Book  of  Job  is  much  of  the  nature  of  a  drama.  It 
was  in  all  probability  written  in  verse  :  and  it  certainly  contains  some 
of  the  finest  and  most  poetical  ideas  that  language  can  express.  Nothing 
can  equal  the  dignity  of  the  Almighty's  speech  from  the  whirlwind.  It 
is  the  finest  part  of  the  noblest  and  most  ancient  poem  in  the  world. 
"Its  grandeur  is  so  much  above  all  other  poetry  as  thunder  is  louder 
than  a  whisper." 

With  what  elegance  and  propriety  scriptural  facts  may  be  clothed  in 
a  dramatic  dress,  may  be  seen  by  consulting  Racine  and  Corneille,  or 
Croly's  Salathiel  or  Millman's  Sacred  Tragedies. 

It  is  a  subject  of  doubt  among  many  whether  works  of  fiction,  upon 
religious  subjects,  be  they  prose  or  verse,  tend  to  promote  the  interests 
of  religion.  If  they  contain  nothing  that  is  wild,  extravagant,  or  roman- 
tic— if  they  preserve  throughout  an  awful  regard  to  the  Divine  Majesty, 
and  inculcate  the  principles  of  morality,  we  do  not  see  why  they  may 
not  be  read  with  profit  and  advantage.  Such  writings  derive  counte- 
nance from  Scripture  itself.  The  Book  of  Job,  just  mentioned,  is  a  pa- 
rable, founded  upon  truth;  for,  probably,  no  person  will  say  that  all  the 
conferences  of  Job  and  his  friends,  were  carried  on  in  the  very  form 
and  words  in  which  they  are  related  to  us.  It  is  sufficient  that  the  ge- 
neral facts  be  strictly  and  literally  true :  as  to  the  form  and  manner  of 
their  relation,  they  are  such  as  seemed  best  to  the  compiler,  under  the 
infallible  guidance  of  Inspiration.  The  same  may  be  also  said  of  those 
beautiful  little  poems,  the  Canticles;  though  there  is  undoubtedly  a  su- 
blime and  significant  meaning  under  the  veil  of  the  exterior  imagery. 
Again ;  are  we  pleased  with  the  plaintive  strains  of  sorrow  and  the  effu- 
sions of  real  grief?  Let  us  read  the  monody  of  the  "sweet  singer  of 
Israel,"  on  Jonathan  and  Saul;  or  his  passionate  exclamations  on  hear- 

VOL.  VII. — NO.  xxxiii.  17 


130  English  Sacred  Poetry.  [January, 

ing  of  the  death  of  his  son,  his  favourite  son  Absalom.  Let  us  peruse 
the  melancholy  pages  of  Jeremiah's  Lamentations,  of  which  one  would 
conceive  that  every  letter  was  written  with  a  tear,  every  word  the  sound 
of  a  broken  heart.  Unfeeling,  indeed,  must  that  breast  be  which  does 
not  waken  into  a  sympathetic  emotion!  Do  we  look  for  boldness  of 
figure  and  majesty  of  description  ?  Let  us  attend  to  the  flights  of  the 
Psalms,  the  magnificence  of  the  Prophets,  and  the  loftiness  of  the  Apo- 
calyptic visions.  Is  there  anything  comparable,  in  any  uninspired 
writer,  to  St  John's  description  of  the  angel?  He  has  introduced  the 
most  surprising  phenomena  in  nature,  as  the  accoutrements  of  this  au- 
gust personage.  His  raiment  is  one  of  those  vast  aerial  sheets  which 
mantle  the  horizon,  and  his  diadem  is  a  rainbow :  his  aspect  is  even 
still  more  sublime;  "  his  face  was  as  it  were  the  sun;"  "  his  feet  were 
as  pillars  of  fire  ;"  his  attitude  is  majestic  and  commanding;  "he  set  his 
right  foot  upon  the  sea,  and  his  left  foot  upon  the  earth."  Who  with- 
out wonder  can  contemplate  this  representation !  how  much  does  it  ex- 
ceed in  grandeur  all  the  fables  of  heathenism  or  the  creatures  of  modern 
fancy  ! 

But  to  select  all  the  elevated  passages  of  the  Bible  would  require  a 
volume.  A  vein  of  dignified  simplicity  runs  through  every  part  of  it. 
From  its  pages  some  of  the  most  eminent  English  poets  have  borrowed 
not  only  ideas,  but  many  of  their  happiest  expressions.  Nothing  is 
more  favourable  to  the  cultivation  of  poetical  genius  than  the  study  of 
the  Prophets.  This  is  far  better  than  following  the  counsel  of  Horace, 
'  turn  over,  day  and  night,  the  Grecian  models.'  How  greatly  did  an 
intimate  acquaintance  with  the  songs  of  Sion  contribute  to  the  unrival- 
led excellence  of  the  prince  of  all  poets  !  That  he  had  such  a  predilec- 
tion, he  himself  has  told  us  :  and  surely  that  such  a  genius  should  derive 
his  highest  gratification  from  the  Oracles  of  Truth,  ought  to  remove  every 
prejudice  and  convince  us  that  religion  may  be  associated  with  the 
grandest  displays  of  genius  and  the  purest  emanations  of  feeling  and  taste. 
But  Milton,  though  the  greatest,  is  not  the  only  poet  who  has  acknow- 
ledged the  Giver  of  Genius — the  Fountain  of  Feeling.  Throughout  the 
works  of  the  English  bards  are  scattered  many  beautiful  hymns  of  de- 
votion and  anthems  of  triumph  ;  and  it  is  now  our  purpose  to  prove  that 
the  truest  religion  and  most  intense  adoration  of  heart  have  often  dwelt 
in  the  bosoms  of  those  who  have  been  branded  by  sectaries  and  bigots 
as  libertines  and  atheists.  There  never  lived  a  man  of  genius  who  was 
not  in  his  secret  soul  devout,  however  much  he  might  affect  to  be  an  in- 
fidel. Our  review,  in  proof  of  this,  must  be  brief,  but  we  hope  it  will 
unite  pleasure  with  instruction. 

It  enters  not  into  our  present  design  to  present  any  examples  of  de- 
votional poetry  from  living  bards  ;  and,  therefore,  this  article  may  seem 
to  conclude  abruptly ;  but,  in  our  rapid  retrospect,  we  hope  to  delight 
the  reader  with  many  beautiful  offerings  of  Genius  on  the  altar  of 
Religion.  No  sooner  had  England  emerged  from  barbarism,  oppres- 
sion and  want,  than  the  faculties  of  her  sons  expanded,  and,  imbibing 
the  influence  of  surrounding  scenery  and  circumstances,  their  songs, 
which  before  had  expressed  mere  animal  passions  and  superstitions  of 
the  lowest  kind,  assumed  a  dignified  and  exalted  character.  We  design 
to  show  the  rapid  increase  of  these  powers,  which,  while  they  refine 
the  heart,  enlarge  the  sphere  of  intellectual  enjoyment,  and  ennoble 
the  human  mind.  We  begin  with  the  admirable  Geoffrey  Chaucer, 
'  The  Morning  Star  of  English  Poetry,'  although,  in  too  many  instan- 
ces, he  has  polluted  the  stream  of  verse  with  indecencies,  for  which 


1836.]  English  Sacred  Poetry.  131 

the  manners  of  the  times  offer  some  excuse.  He  composed  two  pieces 
of  Sacred  Poetry — The  Lamentacion  of  Mary  Magdaleyne,  and  a  Ba- 
lade  in  Commendation  of  our  Lady.  These,  it  is  true,  cannot  compare 
with  his  Canterbury  Tales  and  other  less  serious  productions  ;  yet  they 
contain  passages  of  considerable  beauty,  and  prove  that,  although  the 
former  were  more  congenial  to  his  taste,  this  satirist  of  the  monks  and 
their  delusions  was  no  foe  to  religion ;  nor  was  he  insensible  to  its 
claims  upon  Poetry,  or  to  the  charms  which  the  Muse  was  capable  of 
casting  around  it. 

The  three  following  Stanzas  are  selected  from  The  Lamentacion  of 
Mary  Magdaleyne : — 

"  Within  myne  herte  is  impressed  ful  sore 
His  royal  forme,  his  shappe,  his  semelynesse, 
His  porte,  his  chere,  his  goodnesse  evermore, 
His  noble  persone  with  al  gentylnesse; 
He  is  the  welle  of  al  parfytnesse, 
The  very  redemer  of  al  mankynde  ; 
Him  love  I  best  with  herte,  soule,  and  mynde. 

In  his  absence  my  paynes  ful  bytter  be, 
Right  wel  I  may  it  fele  nowe  inwardly ; 
No  wonder  is  though  they  hurte  or  slee  me, 
They  cause  me  to  crye  so  rewfully  ; 
Myne  herte  oppressed  is  so  wonderfully 
Onely  for  him,  whiche  is  so  bright  of  blee  : 
Alas  !  I  trowe  I  shal  him  neuer  se. 

My  joye  is  translate  ful  farre  in  exile, 

My  myrthe  is  chaunged  into  paynes  colde, 

My  life  I  thynke  endureth  but  awhyle, 

Anguysshe  and  payne  is  that  I  beholde  : 

Wherfore  my  handes  thus  I  wringe  and  folde, 

Into  this  grave  I  loke,  I  cal,  I  pray; 

Dethe  remayneth,  and  lyfe  is  borne  away." 

To  Chaucer  succeeded  John  Lydgate.  He  was  a  priest  and  a 
monk  of  the  Benedictine  Abbey  of  Bury,  in  Suffolk,  and  an  author  of 
very  varied  powers,  as  he  seems  to  have  written  ballads,  hymns,  ludi- 
crous stories,  legends,  romances,  and  allegories,  with  equal  facility,  but 
not  always  (if  we  may  judge  from  the  following  specimen)  with  equal 
felicity ; — these  verses  are  selected  from  his 

CASTELL     OF     LABOURE. 

"  God  knoweth  playne  and  clerely  The  Aungelles  shall  theyr  trumpettes 
Mannes  mynde,  thought,  and  courage;  blowe, 

For  he  by  his  grace  ineffably  Callynge  man  to  the  Jugement; 

Made  hym  like  to  his  owne  image-  Than  every  man  full  well  shall  knowe 

Sholdest  thou  not  than  do  hym  homage,  How  that  he  here  his  lyfe  hath  spent. 

Wiche    hathe   the   gyven   so  grete   a  With  an  hygh  voyce  that  Lorde  omni- 

benefyce,  potent 

Passynge  all  other  in  accauntage,  Shall  call   my  servauntes  wt  hym  to 
That  is,  the  realme  of  Paradyse?  dwell; 

******  The  badde  all  pensyf-woo-and  dolent, 

Perpetually  shall  be  dampnied  to  hell." 

From  the  title  of  some  of  Skelton's  works,  we  infer  that  he  was 
Poet  Laureate  (which,  in  those  days,  was  an  Academical  Degree)  to 
King  Henry  VIII. *     He  wrote  three  short  Sacred  Poems,  entitled 

*  Gifford  says  'he  was  perhaps  the  best  scholar  of  his  day,  and  displays,  on 
many  occasions,  strong  powers  of  description,  and  a  vein  of  poetry.' 


132  English  Sacred  Poetry.  [January, 

Prayers  '  To  the  Father  of  Heauen — To  the  Second  Parsone — To  the 
Holy  Ghost.'    The  first  we  present  to  our  readers. 

A  FRAVER  TO  THE  FATHER  OF  HEAUEN. 

"  O  radiant  Luminary  of  light  interminable, 
Celestial  Father,  potenciall  God  of  night, 
O  Heauen  and  Earthe,  O  Lorde  incomperable, 
Of  all  perfections  the  essenciall,  most  perfighte  ; 
( )  Maker  of  mankind,  that  formd  day  and  night, 
Whose  power  imperial  comprehendeth  euery  place, 
Mine  heart,  my  minde,  my  thought,  my  hole  delight, 
Is  after  this  lyfe  to  see  thy  glorious  face. 

Whose  magnificence  is  incomprehensible, 

Al  arguments  of  reason  which  far  doth  excede; 

Whose  deite  doutles  is  indivisible, 

From  whom  al  goodnes  and  vertuc  doth  proccde  ; 

Of  thy  support  al  creatures  have  nede. 

Assist  me,  good  Lord,  and  graunt  me  of  thy  grace 

To  line  to  thy  pleasure  in  word,  thought,  and  dede, 

And  after  this  lyfe  to  see  thy  glorious  face." 

The  unfortunate  Earl  of  Surrey,  so  celebrated  as  an  Amatory 
Poet,  translated  Ecclesiastes  and  certain  Psalms — but,  as  they  are  long 
and  unequal,  we  shall  not  present  our  readers  with  an  extract  from  any 
portion  of  them. 

Sir  Thomas  Wyat,  who  also  flourished  at  the  same  period,  put  into 
'  Englishe  Meter  certayn  Psalmes  chosen  out  of  the  Psalter  of  David, 
commonlye  called  the  vii  Penytentiall  Psalmes.'  From  these  we  only 
make  one  brief  extract,  by  which  the  reader  will  be  enabled  to  form  a 
judgment  of  the  execution  of  the  whole. 

"  Lord,  heare  my  praier,  and  let  my  crye  passe 
Unto  thee,  Lord,  without  impediment ; 
Do  not  from  me  tourne  thy  mercyful  face, 
Unto  myselfe  leauynge  my  gouernment : 
In  time  of  trouble  and  adversytye, 
Inclyne  unto  me  thyne  ear  and  thyne  entente." 

Such  were  the  principal  Poets  who  struck  the  Harp  of  Zion  in  Eng- 
land, previous  to  the  reign  of  Elizabeth.  Their  works  were  charac- 
terized by  the  defects  of  their  age,  and  the  two  hundred  years,  which 
this  period  comprehends,  offer  but  few  poetic  gems  worthy  of  present- 
ing to  the  admirers  of  Sacred  Poesy. 

The  next  aera  commences  with  the  immortal  Edmund  Spenser,  the 
most  fanciful  of  English  Poets,  whose  '  Fairy  Queen'  still  reigns  su- 
preme, notwithstanding  its  tedious  allegory.  He  has,  however,  stronger 
and  more  pleasing  claims  on  our  attention,  as  the  author  of  some  of  the 
finest  religious  poetry  in  our  language.  His  Hymns  of  Heavenly  Love 
and  of  Heavenly  Beauty  abound  with  the  most  splendid  thoughts  and 
sublime  imagery,  clothed  in  language  worthy  of  so  ennobling  a  theme ; 
and,  although  it  is  probable  that  they  have  not  at  any  time  excited  so 
intense  an  interest  as  his  imaginative  verses,  yet  they  deserve,  (if  con- 
sidered merely  as  Poems,)  an  equal  share  of  praise,  and,  we  think, 
cannot  fail  to  elicit  from  every  reader  the  warmest  feelings  of  admira- 
tion towards  the  lofty  genius  that  composed  them.  We  select  the  fol- 
lowing stanzas  from  the  first-named,  regretting  that  our  limited  space 
precludes  the  possibility  of  giving  the  whole. 


1836.]  English  Sacred  Poetry.  133 

AN     HYMNE      OF     HEAVENLY      LOVE. 

"  Love !  lift  me  up  upon  thy  golden  wings 
From  this  base  world  unto  thy  Heavens  hight, 
Where  I  may  see  those  admirable  things 
Which  there  thou  workest  by  thy  soveraine  might, 
Farre  above  feeble  reach  of  earthly  sight, 
That  I  thereof  an  heavenly  Hymne  may  sing 
Unto  the  God  of  love,  high  Heaven's  King. 

Before  this  world's  great  frame,  in  which  al  things 
Are  now  contained,  found  any  being,  place, 
Ere  flitting  Time  could  wag  his  eyas  wings 
About  that  mighty  bound  which  doth  embrace 
The  rolling  spheres,  and  parts  their  houres  by  space, 
That  High  Eternal  Powre  which  now  doth  move 
In  all  these  things,  raoved  in  it  selfe  by  love. 

It  loved  itselfe,  because  itselfe  was  faire, 
(For  faire  is  loved)  and  of  itselfe  begot, 
Like  to  itselfe,  his  eldest  Sonne  and  Heire, 
Eternall,  pure,  and  void  of  sinfull  blot, 
The  firstling  of  his  joy,  in  whom  no  jot 
Of  Loves  dislikes  or  pride  was  to  be  found, 
Whome  He  therefore  with  equall  honour  crownd. 

With  him  he  raignd  before  all  time  prescribed 
In  endlesse  glory  and  immortall  might, 
Together  with  that  Third  from  them  derived, 
Most  wise,  most  holy,  most  almightie  spright; 
Whose  kingdomes  throne  no  thoughts  of  earthly  wight 
Can  comprehend,  much  lesse  my  trembling  verse 
With  equall  words  can  hope  it  to  reherse. 

Yet  0,  most  blessed  Spirit!  pure  Lampe  of  Light, 

Eternall  Spring  of  Grace,  and  Wisedom  trew, 

Vouchsafe  to  shed  into  my  barren  spright 

Some  little  drop  of  thy  celestiall  dew, 

That  may  my  rymes  with  sweet  infuse  embrew, 

And  give  me  words  equall  unto  my  thought 

To  tell  the  marveiles  by  thy  mercie  wrought. 

To  them*  the  Heavens  illimitable  height 

(Not  this  round  Heaven,  which  we  from  hence  behold 

Adornd  with  thousand  Lamps  of  burning  light, 

And  with  ten  thousand  gemmes  of  shyning  gold) 

He  gave  as  their  inheritance  to  hold, 

That  they  might  serve  him  in  eternall  blis, 

And  be  partakers  of  those  joyes  of  his. 

There  they  in  their  trinall  triplicities 
About  Him  wait,  and  on  His  will  depend, 
Either  with  nimble  wings  to  cut  the  skies, 
When  He  them  on  His  messages  doth  send, 
Or  His  owne  dread  Presence  to  attend ; 
Where  they  behold  the  glorie  of  His  Light, 
And  caroll  hymnes  of  Love  both  day  and  night. 

Both  day  and  night  is  unto  them  all  one, 
For  He  His  beames  doth  unto  them  extend ; 

*  The  Angels. 


134  English  Sacred  Poetry.  [January, 

The  Darknesso  there  appeareth  never  none, 
Ne  hath  their  day,  ne  hath  their  hlisse  an  end: 
But  there  their  termelesse  time  in  pleasure  spend  ; 
Ne  ever  should  their  happinesse  decay, 
Had  not  they  dard  their  Lord  to  disobay." 


In  the  same  admirable  strain  the  inspired  poet  goes  on  to  depict  the 
sufferings  of  our  Redeemer,  and  concludes  the  Hymn  by  the  following 
impressive  adjuration  to  the  reader: — 

"  Then  let  thy  flinty  hart  that  feels  no  paine 
Empierced  be  with  pittifull  remorse, 
And  let  thy  bowels  bleede  in  every  vaine 
At  sight  of  His  most  sacred  heavenly  corse, 
So  tome  and  mangled  with  malicious  forse ; 
And  let  thy  soule,  whose  sins  His  sorrows  wrought, 
Melt  into  teares  and  grone  in  grieved  thought. 

With  sence  whereof,  whilest  so  thy  softened  spirit 
Is  inly  toucht  and  humbled  with  meeke  zeale 
Through  meditation  of  his  endlesse  merit, 
Lift  up  thy  mind  to  th'  Author  of  thy  weale, 
And  to  His  soveraine  mercie  doe  appeale: 
Learne  Him  to  love  that  loved  thee  so  deare, 
And  in  thy  brest  his  blessed  image  beare. 

With  all  thy  hart,  with  all  thy  soule  and  mind, 
Though  must  Him  love,  and  His  beheastes  embrace ; 
All  other  Loves  with  which  the  world  doth  blind, 
Weake  fancies,  and  stirre  up  affections  base, 
Thou  must  renounce  and  utterly  displace, 
And  give  thyselfe  unto  Him  full  and  free, 
That  full  and  freely  gave  Himselfe  to  thee. 

Then  shalt  thou  feele  thy  spirit  so  possessed, 
And  ravisht  with  devouring  great  desire 
Of  His  dear  selfe,  that  shall  thy  feeble  breast 
Inflame  with  Love,  and  set  thee  all  on  fire 
With  burning  zeale  through  every  part  entire, 
That  in  no  earthly  thing  thou  shalt  delight 
But  in  His  sweet  and  amiable  sight. 

Thenceforth  all  world's  desire  will  in  thee  dye, 
And  all  Earthe's  Glorie  on  which  men  do  gaze 
Seeme  durt  and  dross  in  thy  pure-sighted  eye, 
Compard  to  that  celestiall  beauties  blaze 
Whose  glorious  beames  all  fleshly  sense  doth  daze* 
With  admiration  of  their  passing  light, 
Blinding  the  eyes  and  lumining  the  sprite. 

Then  shall  thy  ravisht  soul  inspired  bee 
With  heavenly  thoughts  faire  above  humane  skil, 
And  thy  bright  radiant  eyes  shall  plainely  see 
Th'  Idee  of  His  pure  glorie  present  still 
Before  thy  face,  that  all  thy  spirits  shall  fill 
With  sweet  enragement  of  celestiall  Love, 
Kindled  thro'  sight  of  those  faire  things  above." 

*  Dazzle. 


183G.]  English  Sacred  Poetry.  135 

Of  Sir  Philip  Sidney,  that  true  pattern  of  a  perfect  gentleman,  who, 
to  the  accomplishments  of  a  scholar  and  a  courtier,  and  the  romantic 
gallantry  of  a  Preux  Chevalier,  united  a  fervency  of  devotion  which 
the  modern  fine  gentleman  affects  to  consider  derogatory  to  his  rank 
and  fashion,  and  whose  example  incontestably  proves  that  religious 
feeling,  so  far  from  being  incompatible  with  those  qualities,  is  calcu- 
lated to  add  to  their  lustre,  and  to  confer  on  them  a  dignity  which  they 
could  only  derive  from  such  a  source,  it  is  difficult  to  speak  in  such 
terms  as  belong  not  to  the  most  extravagant  panegyric. 

His  sister,  whose  name  is  associated  with  his  own  in  all  his  literary 
productions,  appears  to  have  shared  with  him  those  qualities  which 
were  more  peculiarly  suited  to  her  sex,  and  to  have  been  also  endued 
with  no  common  genius.  A  Version  of  the  Psalms,  the  joint  produc- 
tion of  this  noble  pair,  which  had  hitherto  remained  in  manuscript,  has 
been  lately  published ;  and  so  elegant  and  spirited  are  the  tone  and  style 
in  which  it  is  written,  that  we  cannot  but  wonder  that  it  was  suffered 
to  remain  so  long  in  obscurity.  We  select  two  of  these  Psalms  in  proof 
of  the  opinion  which  we  have  offered,  and  we  also  add  a  third,  in  illus- 
tration of  the  quaint  manner,  which,  in  a  greater  or  less  degree,  in- 
fected all  the  compositions  of  the  age. 

Psalm  XLVIII.  The  folk  of  Abraham's  God  to  frend; 

Hee,  greatest  Prince,  greate  princes 

All  people,  to  Jehovah  bring  gaines, 

A  glad  applause  of  clapping  hands;  Princes,  the  shields  that  earth  defend. 
To  God  a  song  of  triumph  sing, 

Who  high  and  highlie  feared,  stands,  Psalm  XCIII. 
Of  all  the  Earth  sole  ruling  King. 

Clothed  with  state,  and  girt  with  might, 

From  whose  almightie  grace  it  growes  Monarck-like  Jehova  raignes; 

That  nations,  by  our  power  opprest,  He  who  Earthes  foundations  pight,* 

On  foote  on  humbled  countries  goes,  Pight  at  first,  and  yet  sustaines. 

Who  Jacob's  honor  loved  best,  He  whose  stable  throne  disdaines 

An  heritage  for  us  hath  chose.  Motions  shock  and  ages  flight: 

He  who  endles  one  remaines, 

There  past  hee  by:  hark,  how  did  ring  One,  the  same,  in  changelesse  plight. 
Harmonious    aire    with    trumpett's 

sound;  Rivers,  yea,  though  rivers  rore, 

Praise,  praise  our  God  :  praise,  praise  Roring  though  sea-billowes  rise; 

our  King,  Vex  the  deepe,  and  breake  the  shore, 

Kings  of  the  World,  your  Judgments  Stronger  are  thou,  Lord  of  skies, 

sound,  Firme  and  true  thy  promise  lies, 

With  skilfull  tunes  his  praises  sing.  Now  and  still  as  heretofore; 

Holy  worshipp  never  dies 

On  sacred  throne,  not  knowing  end,  In  thy  Howse,  where  we  adore. 
For    God   the   King   of    Kingdoms 
raignes, 

The  following  affords  an   instance  of  an  Acrostic  Psalm,  and  we 
therefore  give  it  as  a  curiosity : 

P  raise  him  that  aye  H  is  mercies  are 

R  emaines  the  same:  E  xposed  to  all : 

A  11  tongues  display  L  ike  as  the  word 

J  ehovah's  fame.  O  nee  he  doth  give, 

S  ing  all  that  share  R  old  in  record 

T  his  earthly  ball,  D  oth  tyme  outlyve. 

*  Pitched. 


136  English  Sacred  Poetry.  [January, 

Sir  Walter  Raleigh  inherited  much  of  the  gallant  spirit  and  lite- 
rary talent  of  Sidney ;  but  the  unfortunate  circumstances  of  his  life 
have  cast  a  melancholy  shade  over  his  memory,  which,  however,  serves 
only  to  deepen  the  interest  naturally  felt  in  whatever  relates  to  so  la- 
mented a  victim  of  state  policy  and  intrigues.  Many  charming  effu- 
sions of  his  Muse,  which  evince  firstrate  poetical  talent,  are  to  be  met 
with,  scattered  through  the  publications  of  his  time ;  these  have  been 
collected  and  published,  together  with  choice  selections  from  the  best 
productions  of  his  less  known  contemporaries,  in  a  neat  little  volume, 
entitled  '  Specimens  of  the  Earlier  English  Poets,'  from  which  we  have 
extracted  the  following  beautiful  Hymn,  which  is  equally  creditable  to 
the  piety  and  poetical  powers  of  its  author ; 

"  Rise,  0  my  Soul,  with  thy  desires  to  Heaven, 

And  with  divinest  Contemplation,  use 

Thy  time,  where  Time's  Eternity  is  given, 

And  let  vain  thoughts  no  more  thy  thoughts  abuse ; 
But  down  in  darkness  let  them  lie; 
So  live  thy  better,  let  thy  worse  thoughts  die  ! 

And  thou,  my  soul,  inspired  with  holy  flame, 

View  and  review  with  most  regardfull  eye 

That  holy  cross  whence  thy  Salvation  came, 

On  which  thy  Saviour  and  thy  sin  did  die! 

For  in  that  sacred  object  is  much  pleasure, 

And  in  that  Saviour  is  my  life,  my  treasure. 

To  thee,  0  Jesu,  I  direct  my  eyes, 

To  thee  my  hands,  to  thee  my  humble  knees  ; 
To  thee  my  heart  shall  offer  sacrifice, 

To  thee  my  thoughts,  who  my  thoughts  only  sees  : 
To  thee  myself,  myself  and  all  I  give; 
To  thee  1  die,  to  thee  I  only  live. 

The  following  elegant  paraphrase  of  the  wellknown  and  universally 
admired  Dialogue  between  Horace  and  Lydia  is  so  beautifully  and  ap- 
propriately turned,  that  we  cannot  refrain  from  extracting  it. 

A     DIALOGUE     BETWIXT     GOD     AND     THE     SOUL. 

Soul.  For  whom  my  Soul  would  die,  might 
"  Whilst  my  Soul's  Eye   beheld   no  she 

light,  Leave  them  her  immortality. 
But  what  streamed  from  thy  gracious 

sight,  God. 

To  me  the  World's  greatest  King  I  and  some  few  pure  souls  conspire, 

Seemed  but  a  little  vulgar  thing.  And  burn  both  in  a  mutual  fire, 

For  whom  I'd  die  once  more,  ere  they 
Should  miss  of  Heaven's  eternal  day. 
God. 
Whilst  thou  provdst  true,  and  that  in  Soul. 

thee  But,  Lord,  what  if  I  turn  again, 

I  could  glass  all  my  Deity;  And  with  an  adamantine  Chain 

How  glad  did  1  from  Heaven  depart,  Lock  me  to  thee?     What  if  I  chase 

To  find  a  lodging  in  thy  heart !  The  world  away  to  give  thee  place  ? 

God. 
Soul.  Then  though  these  Souls  in  whom  I  joy 

Now   Fame   and    Greatness  bear  the     Are  Seraphim,  thou  but  a  toy, 
sway,  A  foolish  toy,  yet  once  more  1 

('T  is  they  that  hold  my  prison's  key)     Would   with  thee   live,  and   for  thee 

die!" 


1836.]  English  Sacred  Poetry.  137 

Joshua  Silvester,  surnamed  by  bis  contemporaries  '  The  Silver- 
tongued,'  is  well  known  as  the  translator  of  '  Du  Bartas'  Weeks  and 
Works,'  and  by  the  ridicule  which  Dryden  cast  upon  him,  which  has 
condemned  him  to  an  obscurity  and  contempt  by  no  means  merited. 
The  following  stanzas  from  his  Poem,  entitled  'All  is  not  Gold  that 
Glitters,'  contain  good  thoughts,  happily  but  quaintly  expressed  : 

TO      RELIGION. 

"Religion,  0  thou  life  of  life,  The  proud  their  pride,  the  false  their 
How  worldlings,  that  prophane  thee  fraud, 

rife,  The  thief  his  theft,  her  filth  the  bawd, 

Can  wrest  thee  to  their  appetites !  The  impudent  his  impudence. 

How  Princes,  who  their  Power  deny, 

Pretend  thee  for  their  Tyranny,  Ambition  under  thee  aspires, 

And  people,  for  their  false  de'ights!  And  Avarice  under  thee  desires, 

Sloth  under  thee  her  ease  assumes, 

Under  thy  sacred  name,  all  over,  Lux  under  thee  all  overflows, 

The  vicious  all  their  vices  cover,  Wrath  under  thee  outrageous  grows, 

The  insolent  their  insolence,  All  Evil  under  thee  presumes." 

Drayton,  the  author  of  that  celebrated  Poem,  'The  Polyolbion,' 
wrote  three  Divine  Poems,  entitled  'Noah's  Flood' — 'Moses,  his  Birth 
and  Miracles,  in  Three  Books' — and  '  David  and  Goliath.'  There  are 
very  few  lines  in  all  three  that  are  not  to  be  greatly  admired  for  their 
strength  and  sublimity ;  but,  as  our  space  is  limited,  we  must  content 
ourselves  with  merely  extracting  the  following  invocation  at  the  com- 
mencement of  the  first  poem : 

"  0  let  that  glorious  Angel  which  since  kept 
That  gorgeous  Eden  where  once  Adam  slept, 
When  tempting  Eve  was  taken  from  his  side, 
Let  him,  great  God,  not  only  be  my  guide, 
But  with  his  fiery  faulchion  still  be  nigh 
To  keep  affliction  far  from  me,  that  I 
With  a  free  soul  thy  wondrous  works  may  show, 
When  like  that  Deluge  shall  thy  numbers  flow, 
Telling  the  state  wherein  this  Earth  then  stood 
The  giant  race,  the  universal  flood." 

Drayton  was  born  a  poet ; — for  we  are  informed  by  his  biographers, 
that,  in  his  youth,  he  discovered  a  propensity  to  read  poetry,  and  was 
anxious  to  know  '  what  kind  of  creatures  poets  were ;'  and,  even  on 
his  coming  to  College,  it  is  said  he  importuned  his  tutor,  if  possible, 
'  to  make  him  a  poet.' 

Sir  John  Davies'  Poems  are  distinguished  by  great  intellect  and 
beauty.  Campbell  facetiously  observes,  that  '  Sir  John  Davies  wrote, 
at  twentyfive  years  of  age,  a  Poem  on  '  The  Immortality  of  the  Soul;' 
and  at  fiftytwo,  when  he  was  a  Judge  and  a  Statesman,  another  on 
'  The  Art  of  Dancing.' 

Contemporary  with  this  celebrated  individual,  was  the  accomplished 
Sir  Henry  Wotton,  likewise  a  statesman,  but  who,  towards  the 
close  of  his  life,  took  Deacon's  Orders,  and  was  nominated  Provost  of 
Eton.  His  mind  appears,  from  many  of  his  writings,  to  have  been 
deeply  imbued  with  religious  feelings,  as  the  pious  strain  of  the  fol- 
lowing poetic  effusion  will  evince  : — 

VOL.  VII. — no.  xxxm.  18 


138  English  Sacred  Poetry.  [[January, 

A     MEDITATION. 

"  O,  thou  great  Power!  in  whom  we  Was  worlds  of  seas  to  quench  thine 

move,  ire, 

By  whom  we  live,  to  whom  we  die,  O,  precious  ransom,  which  once  paid, 

Ik  hold  me  through  thy  teats  of  love,  That  consummatum  est  was  said. 

Whilst  on  this  Couch  of  Tears  I  lie; 

And  cleanse  my  sordid  soul  within  And  said  by  him  that  said  no  more, 

By  thy  Christ's  hlood,  the  hath  of  sin.  But  scaled  it  with  his  sacred  breath, 

Thou  then  that  has  dispurged  our  score, 

No  hallowed  oils,  no  gums  I  need,  And  dying,  wert  the  death  of  death; 

No  ncw-bom  drams  of  purging  fire;  Be  now,  whilst  on  thy  name  we  call, 

One  rosy  drop  from  David's  seed  Our  life,  our  strength,  our  joy,  our  all." 

Dr  Joseph  Hall,  Bishop  of  Exeter  and  Norwich,  better  known 
to  the  world  by  his  Satires,  than  by  his  Sacred  Poetry,  wrote  one  or 
two  anthems  for  his  Cathedral  of  Exeter, — the  following  possesses 
great  imaginative  scope,  and  also  much  power  of  versification. 

"  Lord,  what  am  I?  a  worm,  dust,  vapour,  nothing, 

What  is  my  life?  a  dream,  a  daily  dying. 
What  is  my  flesh?  my  soul's  uneasy  clothing. 

What  is  my  time?  a  minute  ever  flying. 
My  time,  my  flesh,  my  life,  and  I, 
What  are  we,  Lord,  but  vanity? 

Where  am  I,  Lord?  downe  in  a  vale  of  Death. 

What  is  my  trade?  sin,  my  dear  God  offending. 
My  sport  sin  too — my  stay,  a  puffe  of  breath; 

What  end  of  sin?  Hell's  horrour  never  ending. 
My  way,  my  trade,  sport,  stay,  and  place, 
Help  up  to  make  up  my  dolefull  case. 

Lord,  what  art  Thou?  pure  life,  power,  beauty,  bliss. 

Where  dwell'st  Thou?  up  above  in  perfect  light. 
What  is  thy  time?  Eternity  it  is. 

What  State?  attendance  of  each  glorious  Sp'rit. 
Thyself,  thy  place,  thy  dayes,  thy  state, 
Pass  all  the  thoughts  of  powers  to  create. 

How  shall  I  reach  Thee,  Lord?  oh,  soar  above, 
Ambitious  soul;  but  which  way  should  I  flie  ? 

Thou,  Lord,  art  way  and  end;  what  wings  have  I? 
Aspiring  thoughts,  of  faith,  of  hope,  of  love, 

Oh,  let  these  wings  that  way  alone 

Present  me  to  thy  blissful  Throne." 

John  Donne,  that  poet  of  this  distinguished  aera,  who  combined 
beauty,  fancy,  and  playfulness,  penned  many  short  sacred  pieces,  from 
which  we  select  the  following  as  peculiarly  characteristic  of  his  style, 
and  of  the  age  in  which  lie  flourished: 

•  "  I  am  a  little  world  made  cunningly 

Of  Elements  and  an  angelic  spright, 
But  black  sin  hath  betrayed  to  endless  night 
Thy  world's  both  parts,  and,  oh,  both  parts  must  die. 
You  which  beyond  that  Heav'n  which  was  most  high 
Have  found  new  spheres,  and  of  new  land  can  write, 
Pour  new  seas  in  mine  eyes,  that  so  I  might 
Drown  my  world  with  my  weeping  earnestly; 
Or  wash  it,  if  it  must  be  drowned  no  more. 
But,  oh,  it  must  be  burnt,  alas!  the  fire 


1836.]  English  Sacred  Poetry.  139 

Of  lust  and  envy  burnt  it  heretofore, 

And  made  it  fouler:  let  their  flames  retire, 

And  burn  me,  O  Lord,  with  a  fiery  zeal 

Of  thee  and  thy  house,  which  doth  in  eating  heal." 

He  was  the  leading  versifier  of  that  metaphysical  school,  who  con- 
trived to  bury  the  happiest  thoughts  beneath  an  obscurity  and  laboured 
quaintness  of  expression  which  it  is  often  difficult  to  penetrate. 

The  admirable  and  glorious  Ben  Jonson,  amid  the  varied  stores  of 
his  literary  acquisitions  (in  which  he  was  inferiour  to  none,  even  in  this 
learned  age),  did  not  entirely'  neglect  the  cultivation  of  the  Sacred 
Muse.  Three  of  his  pieces  are  distinguished  in  his  works  by  the 
title,  Poems  of  Devotion;  they  exhibit,  however,  but  few  traces  of  that 
vigorous  genius  which  so  preeminently  characterizes  his  Plays,  and  of 
that  ease  and  elegance  which  many  of  his  Songs  and  Lyrical  Effusions 
display  in  as  high  a  degree  as  any  to  be  found  in  our  language.  Pure 
strength  of  thought,  clothed  in  simple  but  powerful  language,  and 
adorned  with  an  unambitious  rhyme,  form  the  distinguished  features  of 
most  of  the  compositions  of  this  learned  writer. 

The  brilliant  succession  of  Geniuses,  to  which  this  age  gave  birth, 
bears  ample  testimony  to  the  beneficial  influence  exercised  over  the  hu- 
man mind  by  the  Reformation.  Exalted  by  a  religion,  the  doctrines  of 
which  were  made  known  to  the  people  in  their  own  language,  the 
latent  powers  of  the  mind  were  awakened — it  burst  through  the  tram- 
mels in  which  errour  and  superstition  had  so  long  bound  it, — and, 
drinking  deep  of  the  pure  fountain  of  truth,  poured  forth  its  energies, 
and  exhibited  some  of  the  noblest  examples  of  manly  intellect  and  culti- 
vated taste. 

George  Sandys  commences  the  third  epoch,  so  prolific  in  Puritan 
Poetry.  He  is  known  to  the  world  as  the  translator  of  Ovid's  Meta- 
morphoses. His  Divine  Poems  are  in  one  volume,  and  consist  of  A  Para- 
phrase upon  Job — A  Paraphrase  upon  the  Psalmes  of  David — A  Para- 
phrase upon  Ecclesiastes — A  Paraphrase  upon  the  Lamentations  of 
Jeremiah,  together  with  several  minor  Paraphrases — and  Christ's  Pas- 
sion, a  Tragedie,  which  is  accompanied  with  nearly  as  many  pages  of 
Annotations  as  the  Tragedy  consists  of  itself.  The  poetry  of  Sandys 
is  tinged  very  strongly  with  the  affectation  and  outlandish  conceits  so 
characteristic  of  the  Puritan  Poets  of  his  time,  notwithstanding  that 
many  of  his  Paraphrases  are  highly  poetic,  and  betoken  a  genius, 
though  not  capable  of  appreciating  what  was  correct  according  to  the 
rules  of  taste,  yet  deserving  of  eminence  among  those  names  to  whom 
we  are  indebted  for  Sacred  Poesy. 

PSALM     CVIII. 

"  My  thoughts  the  Lord  their  object  O  heareus,  who  thy  aide  implore, 

make  And  with  thy  owne  right  hand  defend; 

Before  the  ruddy  morning  spring,  To  thy  beloved  succour  send. 

My  glory  of  his  praise  shall  sing :  God,  by  his  sanctitie,  thus  swore 

Awake,  my  lute!  my  harp,  awake!  I,  Succoth's  valley  will  divide, 

While  I  to  all  the  world  rehearse  In  Sichem's  spoils  be  magnified. 

His  praises  in  a  living  verse. 

Manasseh,  Gilead,  both  are  mine; 

Thy  mercy  (0,  how  great!)  extends  Ephraim,   my   strength,  in  battaile 

Above  the  starry  firmament,  bold: 

Still  unto  tender  pity  bent;  Thou,  Judah,shalt  my  scepter  hold, 

Thy  truth  the  soaring  cloud  transcends;  I  will  triumph  o're  Palestine, 

Thy  head,  above  the  heavens  erect,  Base  servitude  shall  Moab  waste; 

Thy  glory  on  the  earth  reflect.  O're  Edom  I  my  shooe  will  cast, 


140 


English  Sacred  Poetry. 


[January, 


Who  will  our  forward  troops  direct 
To  Kabbah,  strongly  fortifi'd; 
Or  into  sandy  Edom  guide? 

Lord!  wilt  not  thou,  that  didst  reject, 
\t  r  would  Si  before  our  armies  goe, 
Now  lead  our  host  against  the  foe? 

When  death  and  horrour  most  affright, 

Of  precisely  the  same  school  was 
Izaac  Walton,  he  was  so  popular  in  1 
sand  copies  of  his  Poems  were  sold 
piety  than  the  good  taste  of  the  age. 
following  specimen: 


Doe  thou  our  troubled  souls  sustaine; 
For,  O,  the  helpe  of  man  is  vaine; 
Lead,  and  we  valiantly  shall  fight. 
Thy   feet    our  foes    shall    trample 

downe, 
Thy  hands  our  browes  with  conquest 
crowne." 


George  Herbert.     According  to 

lis  time,  that  no  less  than  ten  thou- 

a  fact  which  speaks  more  for  the 

From  his  Temple,  we  select  the 


discipline 


"Throw  away  thy  rod, 
Throw  away  thy  wrath. 

0  my  God, 
Take  the  gentle  path. 

Fr  r  my  heart's  desire 
With  thine  is  bent; 

1  aspire 
To  a  full  consent. 

Not  a  word  or  look 
I  affect  to  own, 

But  by  bock, 
And  thy  bock  alone. 

Though  I  fail,  I  weep, 
Though  1  halt  in  pace, 

Yet  I  creep 
To  the  throne  of  grace. 


Then  let  wrath  remove ; 
Love  will  do  the  deed, 

For  with  love 
Strong  hearts  will  bleed. 

Love  is  swift  of  foot, 
Love's  a  man  of  war, 
And  can  shoot, 
And  can  hit  from  far! 

Who  can  'scape  his  bow? 
That  which  wrought  on  thee, 

Brought  thee  low, 
Needs  must  work  on  me. 

Throw  away  thy  rod, 
Though  man  frailties  hath  ; 

Thou  art  God, 
Throw  away  thy  wrath." 


The  Earl  of  Stirling,  whose  songs  and  madrigals  have  innume- 
rable beauties  scattered  throughout  them,  wrote  a  long,  heavy,  religious 
poem,  entitled  Doomesday,  in  which  there  is  but  little  to  admire,  and 
scarcely  any  portion  of  it  worth  extracting. 

Drummond  of  Hawthornden,  one  of  the  most  beautiful  poets  that 
Scotland  ever  produced,  whose  exquisite  feeling  and  tasteful  imagery  will 
cause  his  works  to  be  read  with  delight,  composed  no  inconsiderable 
portion  of  a  magnificent  poem,  entitled  The  Shadow  of  the  Judgment, 
together  with  many  Hymns  and  Minor  Poems  on  Sacred  Subjects, 
fraught  with  sweetness  and  true  piety.  The  following  is  one  among 
those  alluded  to: — 

HYMN     FOR     WEDNESDAY. 


"  O  holy  God  of  heavenly  frame, 
Who  mak'st  the  pole's  wide  center 
bright, 
And    paint'st  the  same  with   shining 
flame, 
Adorning  it  with  beauteous  light; 

Who  framing  on  the  fourth  of  days, 
The  fiery  Chariot  of  the  Sun, 

Appoinl'st    the    Moon    her    changing 
rays, 
And  orbs  in  which  the  planets  run. 


That  thou  might'st  by  a  certain  bound 

'Twixt  night  and  day  division  make ; 

And   that  some   sure   sign   might   be 

found 

To  show  where  months  beginning 

take. 

Men's  hearts  with  lightsome  splendour 
bless, 

Wipe  from  their  minds  polluting  spots; 
Dissolve  the  bond  of  guiltiness, 

Throw  down  the  heaps  of  sinful  blots." 


1836.]  English  Sacred  Poetry.  141 

Giles  and  Phixeas  Fletcher  were  two  extraordinary  brothers,  to 
whose  poetry  there  is  little  doubt  that  Milton  was  indebted  for  some  of 
his  finest  passages.  Headly,  that  amiable  man  and  excellent  commen- 
tator, who  lias  bestowed  more  attention  than  any  modern  critic  on  the 
works  of  The  Fletchers,  pronounces  The  Christ's  Victory  (written 
by  Giles)  to  be  a  '  rich  and  picturesque  poem.'  In  this  opinion  we 
conceive  all  who  have  read  it  will  agree.  It  is  divided  thus:  Christ's 
victory  in  Heaven — Christ's  Triumph  on  Earth — Christ's  Triumph 
over  Death — Christ's  Triumph  after  Death.  To  give  the  reader  a  just 
idea  of  the  poem  would  require  a  much  larger  space  than  we  can  afford; 
we,  therefore,  refer  him  to  the  volume,  and  pass  on  to  Phixeas,  who  is 
known  to  all  by  his  magnificent  and  highly  curious  poem,  The  Purple 
Island ;  this,  which  is  anatomy  and  poesy  united,  is  but  a  small  por- 
tion of  his  labours  in  the  field  of  poetry. 

Sir  Johx  Beaumont,  brother  of  Francis,  the  dramatic  colleague  of 
Fletcher,  is  worthy  of  notice  as  having  written  some  Sacred  Poems, 
which  are  deserving  of  being  better  known :  at  the  conclusion  of  An 
Ode  of  the  Blessed  Trinitie,  after  mentioning  '  the  Three  in  One,'  he 
thus  beautifully  concludes : 

"  Stay,  stay,  Parnassian  girle,  But  now  thou  may'st  perceiue 

Hear  thy  descriptions  faint,  The  weaknesse  of  thy  wings, 

Thou  humane  shapes  can'st  paint,  And  that  thy  noblest  strings 

And  can'st  compare  to  pearle  To  muddy  objects  cleaue; 

White  teeth,  and  speak  of  lips  which  Then  praise  with  humble  silence  hea- 

rubies  taint,  venly  things, 

Resembling  beauteous  eies  to  orbs  that  And  what  is  more  than  this,  to  still 

swiftly  whirl.  Devotion  leaue." 

That  '  voluminous  Saint,'  as  Campbell  calls  Fraxcis  Qttarles,  was 
one  of  the  most  popular  writers  of  this  period.  His  Emblems  contain 
the  best  specimens  of  his  Sacred  Poetry,  from  which,  as  they  cannot  be 
clearly  understood  without  the  illustrative  plates,  and  are,  moreover,  in 
the  possession  of  many  readers  of  religious  verse,  we  conceive  it  would 
be  needless  to  make  any  selections. 

Equally  voluminous  was  his  successor,  the  celebrated  Richard  Bax- 
ter, who  formed  himself  confessedly  on  the  model  of  Herbert  and 
Sandys  ;  he  retains  much  of  his  popularity,  even  to  the  present  day. 
Drs  Barrow  and  Johnson  were  great  admirers  of  his  writings :  his 
Poems,  although  disfigured  with  quaintness,  bear  marks  of  that  strong 
mind  and  fervent  piety  so  visible  throughout  the  pages  of  his  other  pro- 
ductions. 

THE     EXIT. 

"  My  Soul,  go  boldly  forth,  Mortal  men's  story; 

Forsake  this  sinful  earth;  Lookup  by  Faith,  and  see 
"What  hath  it  been  to  thee  Sure  joyful  glory. 

But  pain  and  sorrow,  *  *  *  # 

And  think'st  thou  it  will  be  Look  up  tow'rds  Heaven,  and  see 

Better  tomorrow  ?  How  vast  those  regions  be, 

Where  blessed  spirits  dwell, 
Love  not  this  darksome  womb  How  pure  and  lio-htful: 

Nor  yet  a  gilded  tomb,  But  earth  is  near  to  Hell; 
Though  on  it  written  be  How  dark  and  frightful!" 

This  fine  poem,  which  consists  of  thirtyone  stanzas,  concludes  thus 
beautifully: — 


142  English  Sacred  Poetry.  [January, 

"  Lord  Jesus,  take  my  spirit,  For  thou  hast  sought  it; 

I  trust  thy  Love  and  Merit;  This  soul  in  safety  keep, 

Take  home  this  wand'ring  sheep,  For  thou  hast  bought  it." 

Habingtox,  the  celebrated  author  of  The  Castara,  a  volume  of  poems 
filled  with  imagination,  tenderness,  and  elegance,  has  devoted  the  last 
portion  of  it  to  moral  and  religious  contemplation:  some  of  these  effu- 
sions possess  the  simplicity  and  fervour  of  true  piety  in  an  eminent  de- 
gree, and  must  have  been  the  offspring  of  a  mind  highly  cultivated  and 
religious  :  the  three  last  verses  of  the  last  Poem  in  his  works  we  pre- 
sent the  reader,  whose  admiration,  we  think,  will  equal  ours. 

"  My  God!  if  'tis  thy  great  decree  To  think  this  breathlesse  body  must 

That  this  must  the  last  moment  be  Become  a  loathsome  heape  of  dust, 

Wherein  I  breathe  this  ayre,  And  nere  again  appeare  ] 
My  heart  obeyes,  joyed  to  retreate 

From  the  false  favours  of  the  great  For  in  the  fire  when  ore  is  tryed, 

And  treachery  of  the  faire.  And  by  that  torment  purified, 

Do  we  deplore  the  losseT 

When  Thou  shalt  please  this  soul  t'     And  when  thou  shalt  my  soule  refine, 

enthrowne  That  it  thereby  may  purer  shine, 

Above  impure  corruption,  Shall  I  grieve  for  the  drosse?" 

What  should  I  grieve  or  feare, 

The  sweetest  Songwriter  of  his  age  was  Herrick,  to  whom  the  mo- 
derns are  indebted  as  well  for  style  as  for  ideas,  both  of  which  they 
have  remorselessly  pillaged  from  him ;  he  wrote  but  little  Sacred 
Poesy,  which  we  regret,  although  it  is  by  no  means  equal  to  his  lighter 
productious. 

his   saviour's   words    going  to  the   cross. 

"  Have,  have  ye  no  regard,  all  ye  The  myrrh,  the  gall,  the  vinegar; 

Who  pass  this  way,  to  pity  me, 

Who  am  a  man  of  misery?  For  Christ,  your  loving  Saviour,  hath 

Drunk  of  the  wine  of   God's  fierce 
A  man  both  bruised,  and  broke,  and  wrath; 

one  Only  there's  left  a  little  froth, 

Who  suffers  not  here  for  my  own 
But  for  my  friends'  transgression!  Less  for  to  taste  than  for  to  show 

What  bitter  cups  had  been  your  due, 
Ah,  Sion's  daughters!  do  not  fear  Had  he  not  drunk  them  up  for  you." 

The  cross,  the  cords,  the  nail,  the  spear, 

Crashaw  united,  with  wonderful  felicity,  strength  of  thought  and 
beauty  of  imagination.  Pope  having  purloined  some  of  his  best  images, 
declared  that  poor  Crashaw  was  unworthy  of  notice,  hoping,  no  doubt, 
to  prevent  the  detection  of  his  little  depredations  on  premises  deserted 
and  abandoned  by  his  own  contrivance.  He  wrote  Steps  to  the  Tem- 
ple, being,  for  the  most  part,  Epigrams  on  several  passages  in  the  New 
Testament :  he  translated  Marino's  Sospetto  d'Herode,  and  composed  a 
variety  of  Hymns  and  other  sacred  poetry.  Many  of  his  pieces,  al- 
though tinged  with  affectation,  are  still  to  be  greatly  admired,  and  de- 
serve to  be  rescued  from  the  oblivion  into  which  they  have  unjustly 
fallen.  Of  his  Paraphrases,  we  deem  that  of  the  137th  Psalm  to  abound 
in  pathos  and  poetic  beauty. 

"  On  the  proud  banks  of  great  Euphrates'  flood, 

There  we  sat,  and  there  we  wept; 
Our  harps  that  now  no  music  understood, 

Nodding,  on  the  willows  slept; 


1836.]  English  Sacred  Poetry.  143 

While  unhappy  captiv'd  we, 
Lovely  Sion,  thought  on  thee! 

They,  they  that  snatched  us  from  our  country's  breast, 

Would  have  a  song  carved  to  their  ears 
In  Hebrew  numbers,  then;  O  cruel  jest! 

When  harps  and  hearts  were  drowned  in  tears. 
Come,  they  cried,  come  sing  and  play 
One  of  Sion's  songs  to  day. 

Sing!  Play!  to  whom,  ah!  shall  we  sing  or  play, 

If  not,  Jerusalem,  to  thee? 
Ah,  thee,  Jerusalem!  All!  sooner  may 

This  hand  forget  the  mastery 
Of  music's  dainty  touch,  than  I 
The  music  of  thy  memory! 

Which,  when  I  lose,  oh!  may  at  once  my  tongue 

Lose  this  same  busy  speaking  art ; 
Unpercht  her  vocal  arteries  unstrung, 

No  more  acquainted  with  my  heart. 
On  my  dry  palate's  roof  to  rest, 
A  withered  leaf,  and  idle  guest! 

No,  no;  thy  good,  Sion,  alone  must  crown 

The  head  of  all  my  hope-nurst  joys; 
But,  Edom,  cruel  thou!  thou  cry'dst  down,  down: 

Sink,  Sion,  down,  and  never  rise: 
Her  falling  thou  didst  urge  and  thrust, 
And  haste  to  dash  her  into  dust. 

Dost  laugh?  proud  Babel's  daughter!  do,  laugh  on, 

Till  thy  ruin  teach  thee  tears, 
E'en  such  as  these,  laugh,  till  a  venging  throng 

Of  woes  too  late  do  rouse  thy  fears, 
Laugh  till  thy  children's  bleeding  bones 
Weep  precious  tears  upon  the  stones !" 

This  aera,  so  fertile  in  Sacred  Poetry,  closes  with  '  The  Master 
Genius' — the  sublime,  we  had  almost  said  the  divine — Milton;  al- 
though such  was  the  degenerate  taste  of  the  times  in  which  he  lived, 
that  the  crude  and  unequal  compositions  of  several  of  his  contempora- 
ries completely  eclipsed  the  fame  that  was  justly  due  to  his  transcend- 
ent merits.  Posterity,  however,  has  done  justice  to  the  grandeur  of  his 
conceptions,  and  the  sustained  majesty  of  his  language,  which  ap- 
proaches, as  nearly  as  we  can  conceive  anything  human,  to  the  fer- 
vency of  inspiration. 

To  the  poetry  of  the  age,  through  which  we  have  conducted  our  read- 
ers, it  would  be  difficult  to  assign  any  general  character.  We  meet, 
throughout,  the  most  brilliant  ideas  clothed  in  affectation,  quaintness, 
and  obscurity;  a  few,  however,  rose  superiour  to  the  vices  of  the  age,  and 
in  return  were  doomed  to  remain  unnoticed  by  their  contemporaries, 
and  to  receive  instead,  the  applause  and  homage  of  posterity. 

The  times  were  favourable  to  the  production  of  genius,  but  the  un- 
settled state  of  public  affairs  called  it  off  to  scenes  of  tumult,  or  the  field 
of  controversy,  where  these  '  warring  spirits'  were  so  occupied  with 
reply  and  rejoinder,  that  they  were  thus  prevented  from  paying  their 
court  with  becoming  assiduity  to  the  milder  beauties  of  the  Sacred 
Muse. 


144  English  Sacred  Poetry.  [January, 

We  come  now  to  the  fourth  a?ra,  in  which  Waller,  who  will  ever  be 
admired  for  the  sweetness  of  his  numbers,  in  his  declining  years  com- 
posed a  few  Sacred  Poems  ;  he  then  looked  upon  the  time  past  with  the 
sentiments  which  his  great  predecessor  Petrarch  bequeathed  to  posterity 
upon  his  review  of  the  amatory  poetry  which  has  given  him  immor- 
tality. Six  short  cantos  of  a  poem  entitled  '  Of  Divine  Love,'  two 
also  '  Of  the  Fear  of  God,'  and  two  '  Of  Divine  Poesy,'  comprise 
nearly  the  whole  of  Waller's  attempts  in  this  department.  As  might  be 
guessed,  they  are  greatly  inferiour  to  his  amatory  effusions. 

Of  the  great  Dryden,  whose  works  are  in  every  hand,  we  have  to 
regret  that  we  can  find  but  one  sacred  effusion  proceeding  from  his 
pen,  with  which,  without  further  preface,  we  present  the  reader,  ob- 
serving, at  the  same  time,  that  it  possesses  that  majesty  and  harmony, 
so  distinguishable  in  his  poetry. 

V  E  N  I     C  It  E  A  TOR     SPIKITUS. 

"  Creator  Spirit!  by  whose  aid  Refine  and  purge  our  earthly  parts; 

The  world's  foundations  first  were  laid,  But,  oh,  inflame  and  fire  our  hearts! 

Come  visit  every  pious  mind;  Our  frailties  help,  our  vice  controul, 

Come  pour  the  joys  on  human  kind;  Submit  the  senses  to  the  soul; 

From  sin  and  sorrow  set  us  free,  And  when  rebellious  they  are  grown, 

And  make  thy  temples  worthy  thee.  Then  lay  thy  hand,  and  hold 'em  down. 

O  source  of  uncreated  Light,  Chase  from  our  minds  the  infernal 

The  Father's  promised  Paraclete !  foe, 

Thrice  Holy  Fount,  thrice  Holy  Fire,  And  peace,  the  fruit  of  love,  bestow; 

Our  hearts  with  heavenly  love  inspire;  And,  lest  our  feet  should  step  astray, 

Come,  and  thy  sacred  unction  bring  Protect,  and  guide  us  in  the  way. 

To  sanctify  us,  while  we  sing.  Make  us  eternal  truths  receive, 

Plenteous   of  grace,   descend    from  And  practise  all  that  we  believe: 

high,  (Jive  us  thyself,  that  we  may  see 

Rich  in  thy  sevenfold  energy!  The  Father,  and  the  Son,  by  thee. 

Thou  strength  of  his  Almighty  hand,  Immortal  honour,  endless  fame, 

Whose  power  does  heaven  and  earth  Attend  th'  Almighty  Father's  name: 

command.  The  Saviour  Son  be  glorified, 

Proceeding  Spirit,  our  defence,  Who  for  lost  man's  redemption  died: 

Who  dost  the  gift  of  tongues  dispense,  And  equal  adoration  be, 

And  crown'st  thy  gift  with  eloquence!  Eternal  Paraclete  !  to  thee." 

Wextworth  Dillon,  Earl  of  Roscommon,  was  decidedly  a  man  of 
great  poetic  genius.  It  is  not  saying  too  much  to  aflirm,  that  Lord 
Roscommon's  Paraphrase  of  the  One  Hundred  and  Forty-eighth  Psalm 
is  the  finest  that  ever  was  written,  but  the  reader  shall  judge  for  him- 
self. 

"  0  azure  vaults  !  O  crystal  sky  ! 

The  world's  transparent  canopy, 
Break  your  long  silence,  and  let  mortals  know 
With  what  contempt  ye  look  on  things  below. 

Winged  squadrons  of  the  God  of  war, 

Who  conquer  wheresoe'er  you  are, 
Let  echoing  anthems  make  his  praises  known, 
On  earth  his  footstool,  as  in  heav'n  his  throne. 

Great  eye  of  all,  whose  glorious  ray 

Rules  the  bright  empire  of  the  day, 
O  praise  his  name,  without  whose  purer  light 
Thou  hadst  been  hid  in  an  abyss  of  night. 

Yi  moon  and  planets,  who  dispense 
By  God's  command  your  influence, 


1836.]  English  Sacred  Poetry.  145 

Resign  to  him,  as  your  Creator,  due, 
That  veneration  which  men  pay  to  you. 

Fairest  as  well  as  first  of  things, 

From  whom  all  joy,  all  beauty  springs, 
0  praise  th'  Almighty  Ruler  of  the  globe, 
Who  useth  thee  for  his  imperial  robe. 

Praise  him,  ye  loud  harmonious  spheres, 

Whose  sacred  stamp  all  nature  bears, 
Who  did  all  forms  from  the  wide  chaos  draw, 
And  whose  command  is  th'  universal  law. 

Ye  wat'ry  mountains  of  the  sky, 

And  you  so  far  above  our  eye, 
Vast  ever-moving  orbs,  exalt  his  name, 
Who  gave  its  being  to  your  glorious  frame. 

Ye  dragons,  whose  contagious  breath 

Peoples  the  dark  retreats  of  death, 
Change  your  fierce  hissing  into  joyful  songs, 
And  praise  your  Maker  with  your  forked  tongues. 

Praise  him,  ye  monsters  of  the  deep, 

That  in  the  sea's  vast  bosom  sleep, 
At  whose  command  the  foaming  billows  roar, 
Yet  know  their  limits,  tremble  and  adore. 

Ye  mists  and  vapours,  hail  and  snow, 

And  you  who  through  the  concave  blow, 
Swift  executors  of  his  holy  word, 
Whirlwinds  and  tempests,  praise  th'  Almighty  Lord. 

Mountains,  who  to  your  Maker's  view 

Seem  less  than  mole-hills  do  to  you, 
Remember  how,  when  first  Jehovah  spoke, 
All  heav'n  was  fire,  and  Sinai  hid  in  smoke. 

Praise  him,  sweet  offspring  of  the  ground 

With  heav'nly  nectar  yearly  crowned ; 
And  ye  tall  cedars,  celebrate  his  praise, 
That  in  his  temple  sacred  altars  raise. 

Idle  musicians  of  the  spring, 

Whose  only  care  's  to  love  and  sing, 
Fly  through  the  world,  and  let  your  trembling  throat 
Praise  your  Creator  with  the  sweetest  note. 

Praise  him  each  savage  furious  beast, 

That  on  his  stores  do  daily  feast, 
And  you  tame  beasts  of  the  laborious  plow, 
Your  weary  knees  to  your  Creator  bow. 

Majestic  monarchs,  mortal  gods, 

Whose  pow'rhath  here  no  periods, 
May  all  attempts  against  your  crown  be  vain, 
But  still  remember  by  whose  pow'ryou  reign. 

Let  the  wide  world  his  praises  sing, 

Where  Tagus  and  Euphrates  spring, 
And  from  the  Danube's  frosty  banks  to  those 
Where  from  an  unknown  head  great  Nilus  flows. 

VOL.   VII. NO.  XXXIII.  19 


146  English  Sacred  Poetry.  [January, 

You  that  dispose  of  all  our  lives, 

Praise  him  from  whom  your  pow'r  derives  ; 

Be  true  and  just  like  him,  and  fear  his  word, 

As  much  as  malefactors  do  your  sword. 

Praise  him,  old  monuments  of  time! 

()  praise  him  in  your  youthful  prime. 
Praise  him,  fair  idols  of  our  greedy  sense, 
Exalt  his  name,  sweet  age  of  innocence. 

Jehovah's  name  shall  only  last, 

When  heaven  and  earth,  and  all  is  past; 
Nothing,  great  God,  is  to  be  found  in  thee 
But  inconceivable  eternity. 

Exalt,  O  Jacob's  sacred  race, 
The  God  of  gods,  the  God  of  grace, 
Who  will  above  the  stars  your  empire  raise, 
And  with  his  glory  recompense  your  praise." 

Having  given  the  whole  of  the  paraphrase,  we  have  left  ourselves  no 
room  to  extract  any  portion  of  a  short  poem  On  the  Day  of  Judgment, 
which  is  equally  to  be  admired  with  the  foregoing.  The  death  of  the 
poet  we  have  so  highly  eulogized,  deserves  to  be  mentioned  here  :  at 
the  moment  in  which  he  expired,  it  is  recorded  that  he  uttered,  with  an 
energy  of  voice  which  expressed  the  most  fervent  devotion,  two  lines  of 
his  own  Version  of  Dies  lrse: 

"  My  God,  my  Father  and  my  Friend, 
Do  not  forsake  me  in  my  end  !" 

Pomfret,  who  possessed  a  pleasing  and  equal  style  of  verse,  wrote 
a  few  Pindaric  Essays  on  sacred  subjects,  which  contain  many  elevated 
ideas  and  glowing  sentiments:  in  one  of  the  Essays  alluded  to,  entitled 
A  Prospect  of  Death,  is  the  following  verse,  which  will  give  the  reader 
a  fair  idea  of  the  whole  : 

"  When  to  the  margin  of  the  grave  we  come, 

And  scarce  have  one  black  painful  hour  to  live, 

No  hopes,  no  prospect  of  a  kind  reprieve, 

To  stop  our  speedy  passage  to  the  tomb ; 

How  moving  and  how  mournful  is  the  sight, 

How  wonderous  pitiful,  how  wonderous  sad  ! 

Where  then  is  refuge,  where  comfort  to  be  had, 

In  the  dark  minutes  of  the  dreadful  night, 

To  cheer  our  drooping  souls  for  their  amazing  flight  ? 

Feeble  and  languishing  in  bed  we  lie, 

Despairing  to  recover,  void  of  rest, 

Wishing  for  death,  and  yet  afraid  to  die  ! 

Terrors  and  doubts  distract  our  breast, 

With  mighty  agonies  and  mighty  pains  opprest." 

Soon  after  this  period,  Sir  Richard  Blackmore  flourished ;  he  is 
known  to  the  poetic  world,  as  being  the  eternal  butt  of  all  wits  of  his 
day,  on  account  of  the  heaviness  of  his  productions,  among  which  his 
poem,  The  Creation,  stands  preeminent. 

Of  a  very  opposite  character  to  the  preceding,  was  his  contemporary, 
Matthew  Prior  :  light,  gay,  and  vivacious,  it  was  not  to  be  expected 
that  he  should  pay  his  court  with  much  assiduity  to  the  sacred  Muse. 
He  has,  however,  left  us  a  Paraphrase  on  the  thirteenth  chapter  of  the 


1836.]  English  Sacred  Poetry.  147 

first  Epistle  to  the  Corinthians,  which  is  eminently  beautiful;  it  com- 
mences thus : — 

CHARITY. 

Did  sweeter  sounds  adorn  my  flowing  tongue 
Than  ever  man  pronounced  or  angels  sung, 
Had  I  all  knowledge,  human  and  divine, 
That  thought  can  reach,  or  science  can  define, 
And  had  1  power  to  give  that  knowledge  birth 
In  all  the  speeches  of  the  babbling  earth  ; 
Did  Shadrach's  zeal  my  glowing  breast  inspire 
To  weary  tortures,  and  rejoice  in  fire, 
Or  had  I  faith  like  that  which  Israel  saw 
When  Moses  gave  them  Miracles  and  Law; 
Yet  gracious  Charity  !  indulgent  guest, 
Were  not  thy  power  exerted  in  my  breast, 
Those  speeches  would  send  up  unheeded  prayer, 
That  scorn  of  life  would  be  but  wild  despair: 
A  cymbal's  sound  were  better  than  my  voice, 
My  faith  were  form,  my  eloquence  were  noise. " 
#  #  #  # 

Parnell,  the  wellknown  author  of  The  Hermit,  wrote  several  beau- 
tiful Paraphrases,  and  other  Sacred  Poems  :  they  are,  for  the  most 
part,  too  long  to  insert  entire. 

Some  of  Yalden's  Poems  possess  merit.  His  Hymn  to  the  Morn- 
ing, and  Paraphrase  of  the  thirteenth  chapter  of  Isaiah  are  the  only 
ones  which  come  within  the  scope  of  the  present  Sketch.  We  regret 
that  we  can  give  no  more  than  one  verse  of  the  former  ;  we  therefore 
present  our  readers  with  the  last,  which  we  conceive  to  be  the  most 
effective  : 

"  '  Let  there  be  light !'  the  great  Creator  said, 
His  word  the  active  child  obeyed ; 
Night  did  her  teeming  womb  disclose, 
And  then  the  blushing  Morn,  its  brightest  offspring,  rose. 
Awhile  th'  Almighty  wondering  viewed, 
And  then  himself  pronounced  it  good  ; 
'  With  Night,'  said  he,  '  divide  th'  imperial  sway ; 
'  Thou  my  first  labour  art,  and  thou  shalt  bless  the  Day.'  " 

Of  that  celebrated  poet  and  exemplary  Christian,  Addison,  it  is  un- 
necessary to  speak  in  terms  of  panegyric.  With  his  most  celebrated 
"  Paraphrase"  we  present  our  readers,  without  any  further  comment 
than  merely  expressing  our  regret  that  our  language  has  not  been  enrich- 
ed with  a  complete  series  of  divine  poems  from  the  same  sublime  pen. 

PSALM     XIX. 

The  spacious  firmament  on  high,  While  all  the  stars  that  round  her  burn, 

With  all  the  blue  ethereal  sky  And  all  the  planets  in  their  turn, 

And  spangled  heaven,  a  shining  frame,  Confirm  the  tidings  as  they  roll, 

Their  Great  Original  proclaim :  And  spread  the  truth  from  pole  to  pole. 
Th'  unwearied  Sun  from  day  to  day 

Does  his  Creator's  power  display,  What  though  in  solemn  silence  all 

And  publishes  to  ev'ry  land  Move  round  this  dark  terrestrial  ball  ? 

The  work  of  an  Almighty  hand.  What  though  no  real  voice  nor  sound 

Amid  their  radiant  orbs  be  found  ? 

Soon  as  the  ev'ning  shades  prevail,  In  reason's  ear  they  all  rejoice, 

The  Moon  takes  up  the  wondrous  tale,  And  utter  forth  a  glorious  voice  ; 

And  nightly  to  the  listening  earth  For  ever  singing,  as  they  shine, 

Repeats  the  story  of  her  birth  ;  '  The  hand  that  made  us  is  divine,'  " 


148  English  Sacred  Poetry.  [January, 

Gay,  the  moral  and  instructive  author  of  The  Fables,  deserves  men- 
tion, on  account  of  two  of  his  poems,  A  Contemplation  on  Night,  and  A 
Thought  on  Eternity;  the  former  of  which  concludes  with  the  follow- 
ing beautiful  lines : — 

"  When  the  pure  Soul  is  from  the  Body  flown, 
No  more  shall  Night's  alternate  reign  be  known ; 
The  Sun  no  more  shall  rolling  light  bestow, 
LSut  from  th'  Almighty  streams  of  glory  flow. 
Oh!  may  some  nobler  thought  my  soul  employ, 
Than  empty,  transient,  sublunary  joy  ! 
The  Stars  shall  drop,  the  Sun  shall  lose  his  flame; 
But  thou,  O  God,  for  ever  shine  the  same." 

Contemporary  with  these  beautiful  poets,  but  as  a  versifier,  superior 
to  them  all,  was  Pope:  to  descant  on  his  merits  is  unnecessary. 

This  acra  embraces  many  of  the  most  distinguished  names  in  that 
bright  galaxy  of  genius  which  procured  for  the  age  the  proud  title  of 
'  Augustan.'  Waller,  Dryden,  Addison,  Pope,  and  many  others,  con- 
tributed to  smooth  our  numbers  and  language  to  a  degree  that  has  not 
been  excelled  by  the  most  elegant  of  modern  versifiers ;  although,  it 
must  be  confessed,  that  they  lost  much  of  the  energy  and  strength 
which  characterize  the  less  laboured,  but  more  forcible  productions  of 
their  successors. 

The  fifth  period  of  English  Sacred  Poetry  commences  with  Dr  Watts, 
whose  name  occupies  a  high  station  among  the  writers  of  religious 
poetry,  and  who  was  equally  celebrated  as  a  Philosopher  and  a  Divine. 
His  works  are  too  numerous  and  too  well  known  to  need  either  enume- 
ration or  eulogy  here.  His  Psalms  and  Hymns  still  deservedly  main- 
tain their  popularity;  they  are  equally  suitable  to  youth,  manhood,  and 
old  age.  Abounding  in  sweetness,  simplicity,  and  pathos,  they  will, 
we  have  no  doubt,  descend  to  succeeding  generations,  who  will,  as 
justly  as  the  present  age,  appreciate  these  fruits  of  genuine  piety  and 
exalted  talent. 

Elizabeth  Rowe  possessed  considerable  talents,  which  she  devoted 
to  the  best  of  all  purposes,  the  promotion  of  religion  and  virtue  ;  the 
longest  of  her  Poetical  Works  is  The  History  of  Joseph,  besides  which 
she  wrote  several  Hymns. 

Pitt,  the  celebrated  translator  of  Virgil,  wrote  many  Paraphrases : 
they  possess  spirit  and  piety,  but,  each  being  too  long  for  insertion 
here,  we  must  refer  the  reader  to  his  Works,  should  he  be  desirous  of 
perusing  what  our  limited  space  compels  us  to  exclude. 

Thomson,  the  poet  of  Nature,  whose  descriptive  poem,  The  Seasons, 
contains  many  passages  which  mark  a  mind  imbued  with  pious  as  well 
as  poetic  feeling,  wrote  A  Hymn  to  the  Deity,  which  is  generally  sub- 
joined to  his  larger  work. 

Contemporary  with  Thomson  was  the  most  celebrated  of  modern 
Sacred  Poets,  Dr  Young.  His  Night  Thoughts  are  too  well  known  to 
our  readers  to  need  either  extract  or  comment.  Among  his  minor  reli- 
gious poems  are  to  be  found  many  beauties.  His  Paraphrase  upon  part 
of  The  Book  of  Job  teems  with  the  magnificent  imagery  of  the  original. 
His  Last  Day  is  also  extremely  fine,  and  contains  many  highwrought 
passages,  the  offspring  of  a  mind  which,  in  many  of  its  conceptions, 
approaches  very  nearly  to  the  sublime. 

Harte,  the  biographer  of  Gustavus  Adolphus,  wrote  many  Divine 
Poems  ;  also  a  Collection  of  Religious  Poems,  entitled  The  Amaranth : 


1836.]  English  Sacred  Poetry.  149 

they  are  for  the  most  part  long  and  very  unequal,  and  but  few  parts  are 
worth  extracting  for  the  reader's  perusal. 

Byrom,  the  author  of  that  celebrated  Pastoral,  "My  Time,  oh  ye  Muses, 
was  happily  spent,"  wrote  many  devotional  pieces,  the  whole  of  which 
possess  considerable  ability  ;  some  indeed  would  not  suffer  by  compa- 
rison with  Watts.  We  insert  for  our  readers'  gratification  one  of  his 
best  poems,  entitled 

A     PENITENTIAL     SOLILOQUY. 

What  though  no  objects  strike  upon  the  sight! 
Thy  sacred  presence  is  an  inward  light; 
What  though  no  sounds  shall  penetrate  the  ear! 
To  list'ning  thought  the  voice  of  truth  is  clear; 
Sincere  devotion  needs  no  outward  shrine, 
The  centre  of  an  humble  soul  is  thine. 

There  may  I  worship,  and  there  may'st  thou  place 

Thy  seat  of  mercy  and  thy  throne  of  grace ; 

Yea  fix,  if  Christ  my  advocate  appear,, 

The  dread  tribunal  of  thy  justice  there; 

Let  each  vain  thought,  let  each  impure  desire, 

Meet  in  thy  wrath  with  a  consuming  fire. 

Whilst  the  kind  rigours  of  a  righteous  doom 
All  deadly  filth  of  selfish  pride  comsume, 
Thou,  Lord,  canst  raise,  though  punishing  for  sin, 
The  joys  of  peaceful  penitence  within; 
Thy  justice  and  thy  mercy  both  are  sweet, 
That  make  our  sufferings  and  salvation  meet. 

Befall  me  then  whatever  God  shall  please, 
His  wounds  are  healing  and  his  griefs  give  ease ; 
He,  like  a  true  physician  of  the  soul, 
Applies  the  med'cine  that  may  make  it  whole  ; 
I  '11  do,  I  '11  suffer  whatsoever  he  wills, 
I  see  his  aim  through  all  these  transient  ills. 

'T  is  to  infuse  a  salutary  grief, 

To  fit  the  mind  for  absolute  relief; 

That,  purged  from  ev'ry  false  and  finite  love, 

Dead  to  the  world,  alive  to  things  above, 

The  soul  may  rise  as  in  its  first-formed  youth, 

And  worship  God  in  spirit  and  in  truth. 

The  unfortunate  and  imprudent  Boyse's  Poem  of  The  Deity  was 
highly  praised  by  some  of  his  contemporaries,  especially  by  Fielding. 
"  To  write  piously  on  such  a  theme,"  says  Southey,  with  his  customary 
dogmatism  and  highchurch  bigotry,  "  may  expiate  the  presumption  of 
the  attempt,  but  cannot  palliate  the  folly.  The  perfect  absurdity  of  this 
criticism  must  be  obvious  to  all,  and  the  extract,  which  we  shall  proceed 
to  make,  will  convince  our  readers  that  there  is  no  foundation  for  the  as- 
sertion of  the  same  critic,  that  "Boyse's  Poems  excite  little  pleasure, 
and  impart  no  instruction." 

WISDOM     OF     THE     DEITY. 

0  Thou,  who,  when  the'  Almighty  formed  this  all, 
Upheld  the  scale  and  weighed  each  balanced  ball; 
And  as  his  hand  completed  each  design, 
Numbered  the  work,  and  fixed  the  seal  divine  ! 
O  Wisdom  infinite  !  creation's  soul, 
Whose  rays  diffuse  new  lustre  o'er  the  whole, 


150  English  Sacred  Poetry.  [January, 

What  tongues  shall  make  thy  charms  celestial  known  1 
What  hand,  fair  goddess!  paint  thee  but  thy  own? 

What  though  in  Nature's  universal  store 
Appear  the  wonders  of  almighty  pow'r; 
Pow'r,  unattended,  terrour  would  inspire, 
Awed  must  we  gaze,  and  comfortless  admire. 
But  when  fair  Wisdom  joins  in  the  design, 
The  beauty  of  the  whole  result 's  divine  ! 

Hence  life  acknowledges  its  glorious  cause, 
And  matter  owns  its  great  Disposer's  laws  ; 
Hence  in  a  thousand  diff 'rent  models  wrought, 
Now  fixed  to  quiet,  now  allied  to  thought; 
Hence  flow  the  forms  and  properties  of  things, 
Hence  rises  harmony,  and  order  springs ; 
Else,  had  the  mass  a  shapeless  chaos  lay, 
Nor  ever  felt  the  dawn  of  Wisdom's  day ! 

See  how,  associate,  round  their  central  Sun 
Their  faithful  rings  the  circling  planets  run ; 
Still  equidistant,  never  yet  too  near, 
Exactly  tracing  their  appointed  sphere. 
Mark  how  the  Moon  our  flying  orb  pursues, 
While  from  the-  Sun  her  monthly  light  renews, 
Breathes  her  wide  influence  on  the  world  below, 
And  bids  the  tides  alternate  ebb  and  flow. 
View  how  in  course  the  constant  seasons  rise, 
Deform  the  earth,  or  beautify  the  skies  : 
First,  Spring  advancing,  with  her  flow'ry  train; 
Next,  Summer's  hand,  that  spreads  the  sylvan  scene ; 
Then,  Autumn,  with  her  yellow  harvests  crowned, 
And  trembling  Winter  close  the  annual  round. 
The  vegetable  tribes  observant  trace, 
From  the  tall  cedar  to  the  creeping  grass ; 
The  chain  of  animated  beings  scale, 
From  the  small  reptile  to  th'  enormous  whale ; 
From  the  strong  eagle  stooping  through  the  skies, 
To  the  low  insect  that  escapes  thy  eyes! 
And  see,  if  see  thou  canst,  in  ev'ry  frame, 
Eternal  Wisdom  shine  confessed  the  same : 
As  proper  organs  to  the  least  assigned, 
As  proper  means  to  propagate  the  kind, 
As  just  the  structure,  and  as  wise  the  plan, 
As  in  this  lord  of  all — debating  man ! 

To  the  pen  of  Samuel  Wesley,  brother  to  the  celebrated  John  Wes- 
ley, we  are  indebted  for  one  of  the  sweetest  pieces  of  Sacred  Lyrical 
Poetry  our  language  can  boast. 

"  The  morning  flowers  display   their  But  worn  by  slowly  rolling  years, 

sweets,  Or  broke  by  sickness  in  a  day, 

And  gay  their  silken  leaves  unfold,  The  fading  glory  disappears, 

As  careless  of  the  noontide  heats,  The  shortlived  beauties  die  away. 

And  fearless  of  the  evening  cold. 

a.t-  lv_^       •   j,  iii  Yet  these,  new-rising  from  the  tomb, 

Nipt  by  the  wind's  untimely  blast,  ^  j  w  h^  fer  shaU    ^ 

Parched  by  the  sun's  directer  ray,         (Jf  ^^^  .    ^  nfe  m  1)]oom) 

The  momentary  glories  waste,  g £   fn)m  diseascs  and  d    lin 

The  shortlived  beauties  die  away. 

So  blooms  the  human  face  divine,  Let  sickness  blast,  let  death  devour, 

When  youth    its   pride   of   beauty  So  Heaven  but  recompense  our  pains, 

shows ;  Perish  the  grass,  and  fade  the  flower  ; 

Fairer  than  Spring  the  colours  shine,  If  firm  the  word  of  God  remains." 
And  sweeter  than  the  newblown  rose. 


1836.]  English  Sacred  Poetry.  151 

Fawkes,  the  celebrated  translator,  who  was  a  clergyman,  penned  a 
few  religious  pieces,  which  are  so  excellent,  that  we  regret  he  did  not 
pay  his  devotions  oftener  to  the  Sacred  Muse. 

THE     PICTURE     OF     OLD     AGE. 

"My  Son,  attentive  hear  the  voice  of  truth, 

Remember  thy  Creator  in  thy  youth, 

Ere  days  of  pale  adversity  appear, 

And  age  and  sorrow  fill  the  gloomy  year ; 

When,  wearied  with  vexation,  thou  shalt  say, 

'  No  rest  by  night  I  know,  no  joy  by  day.' 

Ere  the  bright  soul's  enlightened  power  was  frail, 

Ere  reason,  memory,  and  fancy  fail, 

But  care  succeeds  to  care,  and  pain  to  pain, 

As  clouds  urge  clouds  returning  after  rain. 

Ere  yet  the  arms  unnerved  and  feeble  grow, 

The  weak  legs  tremble,  and  the  loose  knees  bow  ; 

Ere  yet  the  grinding  of  the  teeth  is  o'er, 

And  the  dim  eyes  behold  the  Sun  no  more ; 

Ere  yet  the  pallid  lips  forget  to  speak, 

The  gums  are  toothless,  and  the  voice  is  weak. 

Restless  he  rises  when  the  lark  he  hears, 

Yet  sweetest  music  fails  to  charm  his  ears  ; 

A  stone  or  hillock  turns  his  giddy  brain, 

Appalled  with  fear  he  totters  o'er  the  plain, 

And,  as  the  almond-tree  white  flowers  displays, 

His  head  grows  hoary  with  the  length  of  days ; 

As  leanness  in  the  grasshopper  prevails, 

So  shrink  his  body  and  his  stomach  fails. 

Doomed  to  the  grave,  his  last  long  home,  to  go, 

The  mourners  march  along  with  solemn  woe : 

Ere  yet  life's  silver  cord  be  snapt  in  twain, 

Ere  broke  the  golden  bowl  that  holds  the  brain; 

Ere  broke  the  pitcher  at  the  fountful  heart, 

Or  life's  wheel  shivered,  and  the  soul  depart ; 

Then  shall  the  dust  to  native  Earth  be  given, 

The  Soul  shall  soar  sublime,  and  wing  its  way  to  Heaven." 

Christopher  Smart,  who  four  times  gained  the  Seatonian  Prize,  at 
one  period  of  his  life  had  the  misfortune  to  be  the  inmate  of  a  mad- 
house, where  he  composed  his  Song  to  David,  and,  being  debarred  pen 
and  ink,  wrote  it  with  a  coal,  or  anything  that  came  in  his  way,  on  the 
wainscot :  after  his  recovery,  he  wrote  The  Parables  of  our  Saviour,  in 
familiar  Verse.  It  is  said  that  Smart  was  so  impressed  with  the  impor- 
tance of  the  subjects  of  his  religious  poems,  that  he  frequently  wrote 
them  on  his  knees.  He  possesses  great  command  of  imagery,  and  at 
times  rises  to  sublimity,  as  the  following  passage,  descriptive  of  The 
Last  Day,  will  evince  : — 

"  A  Day  shall  come,  when  all  this  Earth  shall  perish, 
Nor  leave  behind  ev'n  Chaos ;  it  shall  come 
When  all  the  armies  of  the  elements 
Shall  war  against  themselves  ;  and  mutual  rage, 
To  make  Perdition  triumph  :  it  shall  come 
When  the  capacious  atmosphere  above 
Shall  in  sulphureous  thunders  groan  and  die, 
And  vanish  into  void  ;  the  earth  beneath 
Shall  sever  to  the  centre,  and  devour 
Th'  enormous  blaze  of  the  destructive  flames. 
Ye  rocks,  that  mock  the  raving  of  the  floods, 
And  proudly  frown  upon  th'  impatient  deep, 


152  English  Sacred  Poetry.  [January, 

Where  is  your  grandeur  now?  Ye  foaming  waves, 

That  all  along  th'  immense  Atlantic  roar, 

In  vain  ye  swell ;  will  a  few  drops  suffice 

To  quench  the  inextinguishable  fire? 

Ye  mountains,  on  whose  cloudcrowned  tops  the  cedars 

Are  lessened  into  shrubs,  magnific  piles, 

That  prop  the  painted  chambers  of  the  heavens, 

And  fix  the  earth  continual ;  Athos,  where  ? 

Where,  TenerifTe,  thy  stateliness  today? 

What,  jEtna,  are  thy  flames  to  these? — No  more 

Than  the  poor  glowworm  to  the  golden  Sun. 

Nor  shall  the  verdant  vallies  then  remain 
Safe  in  their  meek  submission ;  they  the  debt 
Of  nature  and  of  justice  too  must  pay. 
Yet  I  must  weep  for  you,  ye  rival  fair, 
Arno  and  Andalusia ;  but  for  thee 
More  largely  and  with  filial  tears  must  weep, 
0  Albion,  O  my  country!     Thou  must  join, 
In  vain  dissevered  from  the  rest,  must  join 
The  terrours  of  th'  inevitable  ruin. 

Nor  thou,  illustrious  monarch  of  the  day ; 
Nor  thou,  fair  queen  of  night ;  nor  you,  ye  stars, 
Though  million  leagues  and  million  still  remote, 
Shall  yet  survive  that  day  ;  ye  must  submit, 
Sharers,  not  bright  spectators  of  the  scene. 

But  though  the  earth  shall  to  the  centre  perish, 
Nor  leave  behind  ev'n  Chaos ;  though  the  air 
With  all  the  elements  must  pass  away, 
Vain  as  an  ideot's  dream ;  though  the  huge  rocks, 
That  brandish  the  tall  cedars  on  their  tops, 
With  humbler  vales  must  to  perdition  yield  ; 
Though  the  gilt  Sun,  and  silver-tressed  Moon 
With  all  her  bright  retinue  must  be  lost ; 
Yet  Thou,  Great  Father  of  the  World,  sarviv'st 
Eternal,  as  thou  wert :  Yet  still  survives 
The  soul  of  man  immortal,  perfect  now, 
And  candidate  for  unexpiring  joys." 

James  Merrick,  a  divine  and  poet,  wrote  much  Sacred  Poetry ;  among 
which  may  be  found  many  clever  Paraphrases  of  the  Psalms,  and  seve- 
ral other  portions  of  the  Scripture :  from  these  we  select 


THE 


NUNC      DIMITTIS, 


"  'Tis  enough — the  hour  is  come  ; 
Now  within  the  silent  tomb 
Let  this  mortal  frame  decay, 
Mingled  with  its  kindred  clay; 
Since  thy  mercies,  oft  of  old 
By  thy  chosen  seers  foretold, 
Faithful  now  and  stedfast  prove, 
God  of  Truth  and  God  of  Love! 
Since  at  length  my  aged  eye 
Sees  the  Dayspring  from  on  high, 
Sun  of  Righteousness,  to  thee, 
Lo!  the  nations  bow  the  knee  ; 


And  the  realms  of  distant  kings 
Own  the  healing  of  thy  wings. 
Those  whom  Death  had  overspread 
With  his  dark  and  dreary  shade, 
Lift  their  eyes,  and  from  afar 
Hail  the  light  of  Jacob's  star; 
Waiting  till  the  promised  ray 
Turn  their  darkness  into  day. 
See  the  beams,  intensely  shed, 
Shine  o'er  Sion's  favoured  head ! 
Never  may  they  hence  remove, 
God  of  Truth  and  God  of  Love! 


Nathaniel  Cotton,  the  author  of  The  Fables  and  many  moral 
poems,  which  will  be  admired  while  simplicity  of  thought  and  harmony 
of  versification  shall  excite  praise,  wrote  very  pleasing  religious  poetry. 

Scott  of  Amwell,  as  he  is  generally  called,  was  a  Quaker  by  birth. 
Among  his  miscellaneous  compositions  are  to  be  found  several  Sacred 


1836.]  English  Sacred  Poetry.  153 

Poems,  two  of  which  obtained  Seatonian  Prizes  :  there  being  nothing 
remarkable  either  in  their  style  or  composition.    We  present  no  extract. 

In  this  age,  Sacred  Poetry  assumed  a  new  form,  and  ceased  to  be  dis- 
figured by  the  poor  conceits  and  metaphysical  doctrines  which  had  pre- 
viously been  its  almost  universal  accompaniments ;  and,  instead  of  being 
addressed  to  the  head  alone,  appealed  more  forcibly  to  the  heart,  which 
it  roused  to  devotion  by  means  at  once  the  most  simple  and  the  most 
powerful. 

The  character  of  the  times  was  vastly  improved;  the  dissolute  man- 
ners and  unsettled  principles  of  the  former  age  had  been  gradually  cor- 
rected by  the  writings  of  the  eminent  Moralists  and  Divines  by  whom 
this  was  adorned,  and  a  brighter  aera — the  sixth,  according  to  our  divi- 
sion— was  now  approaching. 

Contemporary  and  intimate  with  Dr  Johnson,  whose  religion,  how- 
ever dogmatic,  was  neither  very  precise,  forbearing  or  partial,  was  that 
learned  and  gifted  lady,  Elizabeth  Carter.  Much  of  her  poetry  is  of 
a  moral  and  didactic  nature ;  but  the  following  partakes,  in  an  eminent 
degree,  the  religious  feelings  which  uniformly  characterized  her,  through 
a  long  and  wellspent  life. 

THOUGHTS     AT     MIDNIGHT. 

"  While  Night  in  solemn  shade  invests  the  Pole, 
And  calm  reflection  soothes  the  pensive  soul ; 
While  Reason  undisturbed  asserts  her  sway, 
And  life's  deceitful  colours  fade  away ; 
To  Thee !  all-conscious  Presence  !  I  devote 
This  peaceful  interval  of  sober  thought. 
Here  all  my  better  faculties  confine, 
And  be  this  hour  of  sacred  silence  Thine. 

If,  by  the  day's  illusive  scenes  misled, 
My  erring  soul  from  Virtue's  path  has  strayed; 
If  by  example  snared,  by  passion  warmed, 
Some  false  delight  my  giddy  sense  has  charmed, 
My  calmer  thoughts  the  wretched  choice  reprove, 
And  my  best  hopes  are  centered  in  Thy  love. 
Deprived  of  this,  can  life  one  joy  afford  ? 
Its  utmost  boast,  a  vain  unmeaning  word. 

But,  ah  !  how  oft  my  lawless  passions  rove, 
And  break  those  awful  precepts  I  approve ! 
Pursue  the  fatal  impulse  I  abhor ! 
And  violate  the  virtue  I  adore ! 
Oft,  when  thy  gracious  Spirit's  guardian  care 
Warned  my  fond  soul  to  shun  the  tempting  snare, 
My  stubborn  will  his  gentle  aid  represt, 
And  checked  the  rising  goodness  in  my  breast; 
Mad  with  vain  hopes,  or  urged  by  false  desires, 
Stilled  his  soft  voice,  and  quenched  bis  sacred  fires. 

With  grief  opprest,  and  prostrate  in  the  dust, 
Should'st  thou  condemn,  I  own  the  sentence  just. 
But,  oh,  thy  softer  titles  let  me  claim, 
And  plead  my  cause  by  Mercy's  gentle  name. 
Mercy,  that  wipes  the  penitential  tear, 
And  dissipates  the  horrors  of  despair ; 
Prom  rigorous  Justice  steals  the  vengeful  hour, 
Softens  the  dreadful  attribute  of  power; 
Disarms  the  wrath  of  an  offended  God, 
And  seals  my  pardon  in  a  Saviour's  blood. 

All-powerful  Grace,  exert  thy  gentle  sway, 
And  teach  my  rebel  passions  to  obey, 

VOL     VII. NO.  XXXIII.  20 


154 


English  Sacred  Poetry. 


[January, 


Lest  lurking  Folly  with  insidious  art 
Regain  my  volatile,  inconstant  heart. 
Shall  ev'ry  high  resolve  devotion  frames 
Be  only  lifeless  sounds  and  specious  names? 
Or  rather  while  thy  hopes  and  fears  controul 
In  this  still  hour  each  motion  of  my  soul, 
Secure  its  safety  by  a  sudden  doom, 
And  be  the  soft  retreat  of  sleep  my  tomb. 
Calm  let  me  slumber  in  that  dark  repose, 
Till  the  last  morn  its  orient  beam  disclose: 
Then,  when  the  great  Archangel's  potent  sound 
Shall  echo  through  Creation's  ample  round, 
Waked  from  the  sleep  of  Death,  with  joy  survey 
The  op'ning  splendours  of  eternal  day." 

That  child  of  genius  and  misfortune,  Thomas  Chatterton,  who,  per- 
haps, has  a  better  claim  to  the  title  of  Prodigy  than  any  on  whom  it  has 
been  lavished,  claims  our  attention  as  the  author  of  a  beautiful  Hymn, 
written  at  the  age  of  eleven.  When  we  review  the  early  poetical  pro- 
ductions of  the  greatest  poets  of  any  age,  we  are  struck  with  astonish- 
ment to  observe  how  vastly  superiour  is  that  which  we  now  present  the 
reader  to  all  the  precocious  emanations  with  which  it  can  be  put  in  com- 
petition. 

HYMN     FOR     CHRISTMAS     DAY. 


"  Almighty  Framer  of  the  skies, 
O  let  our  pure  devotion  rise 

Like  incense  in  thy  sight; 
Wrapt  in  impenetrable  shade, 
The  texture  of  our  souls  were  made, 

Till  thy  command  gave  light. 

The  Sun  of  Glory  gleamed  the  ray, 
Refined  the  darkness  into  day, 

And  bid  the  vapours  fly ; 
Impelled  by  his  eternal  love, 
He  left  his  palaces  above 

To  cheer  our  gloomy  sky. 

How  shall  we  celebrate  the  day, 
When  God  appeared  in  mortal  clay, 

The  mark  of  worldly  scorn  ; 
When  th'  Archangel's  heavenly  lays 
Attempted  the  Redeemer's  praise, 

And  hailed  Salvation's  morn  1 

Almighty  form  the  Godhead  wore, 
The  pains  of  poverty  he  bore, 
To  gaudy  pomp  unknown  : 


Though  in  a  human  walk  he  trod, 
Still  was  the  man  Almighty  God, 
In  glory  all  his  own ! 

Despised,  oppressed,  the  Godhead  bears 
The  torments  of  this  vale  of  tears, 

Nor  bad  his  vengeance  rise ; 
He  saw  the  creatures  he  had  made 
Revile  his  power,  his  peace  invade, 

He  saw  with  Mercy's  eyes. 

How  shall  we  celebrate  his  name, 
Who  groaned  beneath  a  life  of  shame, 

In  all  afflictions  tried  1 
The  soul  is  raptured  to  conceive 
A  truth  which  being  must  believe, — 

The  God  Eternal  died  ! 

My  soul,  exert  thy  powers,  adore; 
Upon  devotion's  plumage  soar, 

To  celebrate  the  day, 
The  God  from  whom  creation  sprung 
Shall  animate  my  grateful  tongue, 

From  him  I'll  catch  the  lay. 


The  Scotch  poet  Logan,  besides  many  other  religious  poems,  com- 
posed nine  Hymns,  all  of  which  partake  the  feeling  and  good  taste  so 
distinguishable  throughout  his  poetic  effusions. 

Blacklock,  his  fellow  countryman,  who  lost  his  sight  before  he  was 
six  months  old,  and  has  consequently  been  extolled  as  a  prodigy  on  ac- 
count of  his  descriptive  powers,  was  a  writer  also  of  Sacred  Poetry, 
much  of  which  is  deserving  of  admiration,  especially  if  we  take  into 
consideration  the  melancholy  deprivation  under  which  he  suffered. 

William  Hayward  Roberts  wrote  A  Poetical  Essay  on  the  Attri- 


1836.]  English  Sacred  Poetry.  155 

butes  and  Providence  of  the  Deity,  and  several  other  pieces  of  Sacred 
Poetry.  Many  passages  of  these  possess  considerable  merit,  but  our 
limits  preclude  us  from  quoting  them. 

Among  the  productions  of  that  elegant  poet  and  profound  scholar 
William  Mason,  we  find  the  following,  which  is  remarkable  for  its  sim- 
plicity and  harmony  of  versification,  and  must  have  served  as  the  model 
of  Pierpont. 

HYMN     FOR     YORK     CATHEDRAL. 

"Again  the  day  returns  of  holy  rest,  Andjoinin  penitence, and  joinin  prayer. 

Which  when  he  made  the  world,  Jeho- 
vah blest,  So  shall  the  God  of  Mercy  pleased  re- 

When,  like  his  own,  he  bade  his  labours  ceive 

cease,  That  only  tribute  man  has  power  to 

And  all  be  piety,  and  all  be  peace.  give ; 

So  shall  he  hear,  while   fervently  we 

While  impious  men  despise  Thy  sage  raise 

decree,  Our  choral  harmony  in  hymns  of  praise. 

From  vain  deceit  and  false  philosophy, 

Let  us  its  wisdom  own,  its  blessings  Father  of  heaven  !  in  whom  our  hopes 

feel,  confide, 

Receive  with  gratitude,  perform  with  Whose  power  defends  us,  and  whose 

zeal.  precepts  guide, 

In  life  our  guardian,  and  in  death  our 

Let  us  devote  this  consecrated  day  friend, 

To  learn  his  will,  and  all  we  learn  obey ;  Glory  supreme  be  thine  till  Time  shall 

In  pure    Religion's    hallowed  duties  end  S" 
share, 

The  merits  of  Blair,  the  divine,  and  elegant  poet,  must,  we  imagine, 
be  known,  and  doubtless  his  poem,  The  Grave,  is  prized  as  it  deserves 
to  be.  The  nature,  feeling,  and  pathos,  displayed  throughout  this  poem, 
entitle  him  to  a  high  rank  among  modern  sacred  poets.  We  select  the 
admirable  passage  in  which  the  author  dissuades  from  suicide,  as  a  spe- 
cimen of  the  splendid  talents  and  force  of  reasoning  with  which  it  is 
enriched. 

"  If  death  were  nothing,  and  nought  after  death  ; 

If  when  men  died,  at  once  they  ceased  to  be, 

Returning  to  the  barren  womb  of  nothing, 

Whence  first  they  sprung,  then  might  the  debauchee 

Untrembling  mouth  the  heavens  : — then  might  the  drunkard 

Reel  over  his  full  bowl,  and,  when  'tis  drained, 

Fill  up  another  to  the  brim,  and  laugh 

At  the  poor  bugbear  death : — them  might  the  wretch 

That 's  weary  of  the  world,  and  tired  of  life, 

At  once  give  each  inquietude  the  slip, 

By  stealing  out  of  being,  when  he  pleased, 

And  by  what  way,  whether  by  hemp  or  steel ; 

Death's  thousand  doors  stand  open. — Who  could  force 

The  ill-pleased  guest  to  sit  out  his  full  time, 

Or  blame  him  if  he  goes  1 — Sure  he  does  well, 

That  helps  himself  as  timely  as  he  can, 

When  able.     But  if  there's  an  hereafter  , 

(And  that  there  is,  conscience,  uninfluenced 

And  suffered  to  speak  out,  tells  every  man  ;) 

Then  must  it  be  an  awful  thing  to  die : 

More  horrid  yet  to  die  by  one's  own  hand. 

Self-murder  ! — name  it  not :  our  island's  shame, 

That  makes  her  the  reproach  of  neighbouring  states. 

Shall  nature,  swerving  from  her  earliest  dictate, 


156  English  Sacred  Poetry.  [January, 

Self-preservation,  fall  by  her  own  act? 
Forbid  it,  Heaven! — Let  not,  upon  disgust, 
The  shameless  hand  be  foully  crimsoned  o'er 

With  blood  of  its  own  lord Dreadful  attempt ! 

Just  reeking  from  self-slaughter,  in  a  rage, 

To  rush  into  the  presence  of  our  Judge ; 

As  if  we  challenged  him  to  do  his  worst, 

And  mattered  not  his  wrath! — Unheard-of  tortures 

Must  be  reserved  for  such  :  these  herd  together ; 

The  common  damned  shun  their  society, 

And  look  upon  themselves  as  fiends  less  foul. 

Our  time  is  fixed,  and  all  our  days  are  numbered  ! 

How  long,  how  short,  we  know  not : — this  we  know, 

Duty  requires  we  calmly  wait  the  summons, 

Nor  dare  to  stir  till  Heaven  shall  give  permission  : 

Like  sentries  that  must  keep  their  destined  stand, 

And  wait  th'  appointed  hour,  till  they're  relieved. 

Those  only  are  the  brave  that  keep  their  ground, 

And  keep  it  to  the  last.     To  run  away 

Is  but  a  coward's  trick  :  to  run  away 

From  this  world's  ill,  that  at  the  very  worst 

Will  soon  blow  o'er,  thinking  to  mend  ourselves, 

By  boldly  venturing  on  a  world  unknown, 

And  plunging  headlong  in  the  dark  ; — 't  is  mad  ; 

No  frenzy  half  so  desperate  as  this." 

The  learned  Bishop  Lowth,  whose  Translation  of  Isaiah,  and  Trea- 
tise on  the  Sacred  Poetry  of  the  Hebrews,  will  ever  be  read  and  admired, 
wrote  numerous  pieces  of  Sacred  Poetry  of  a  very  superiour  character. 
They  are  chiefly  distinguishable  by  grasp  of  thought  and  vigorous  ima- 
gination, nor  are  they  deficient  in  that  smooth  and  easy  flow  of  num- 
bers which  adds  a  charm  to  the  finest  conceptions,  and  gives  additional 
grace  to  the  most  sublime  ideas. 

david's    elegy  for   sauland   Jonathan. 

"Thy  glory,  Israel,  droops  its  languid  head, 

On  Gilboa's  heights  thy  rising  beauty  dies  : 
In  sordid  piles  there  sleep  th'  illustrious  dead. 

The  mighty  victor  fall'n  and  vanquished  lies. 

Yet  dumb  be  Grief — Hushed  be  her  clam'rous  voice! 

Tell  not  in  Gath  the  tidings  of  our  shame! 
Lest  proud  Philistia  in  our  woes  rejoice, 

And  rude  barbarians  blast  fair  Israel's  fame. 

No  more,  0  Gilboa!  heaven's  reviving  dew 

With  rising  verdure  crown  thy  fated  head  ! 
No  victim's  blood  thine  altar  dire  imbrue  ! 

For  there  the  blood  of  heaven's  elect  was  shed. 

The  sword  of  Saul  ne'er  spent  its  force  in  air  ; 

The  shaft  of  Jonathan  brought  low  the  brave  ; 
In  life  united  equal  fates  they  share, 

In  death  united  share  one  common  grave. 

Swift  as  the  eagle  cleaves  the  aerial  way, 
Through  hosts  of  foes  they  bent  their  rapid  course  ; 

Strong  as  the  lion  darts  upon  his  prey, 
They  crushed  the  nations  with  resistless  force. 


1830.]  English  Sacred  Poetry.  157 

Daughters  of  Judah,  mourn  the  fatal  day, 

In  sable  grief  attend  your  monarch's  urn  ; 
To  solemn  notes  attune  the  pensive  lay, 

And  weep  those  joys  that  never  shall  return  : 

With  various  wealth  he  made  your  tents  o'erflow, 
In  princely  pride  your  charms  profusely  drest ; 

Bade  the  rich  robe  with  ardent  purple  glow, 
And  sparkling  gems  adorn  the  tissued  vest. 

On  Gilboa's  heights  the  mighty  vanquished  lies, 

The  son  of  Saul,  the  generous  and  the  just; 
Let  streaming  sorrows  ever  fill  these  eyes, 

In  sacred  tears  bedew  a  brother's  dust ! 

Thy  firm  regard  revered  thy  David's  name, 

And  kindest  thoughts  in  kindest  acts  expressed ; 

Not  brighter  glows  the  pure  and  gen'rous  flame 
That  lives  within  the  tender  virgin's  breast. 

But  vain  the  tear,  and  vain  the  bursting  sigh, 
Though  Sion's  echoes  with  our  griefs  resound  ; 

The  mighty  victors  fall'n  and  vanquished  lie, 
And  war's  refulgent  weapons  strew  the  ground."' 

Bishop  Portetjs,  the  successor  of  Lowth  in  the  See  of  London,  in 
addition  to  his  other  religious  works,  composed  a  Seatonian  Prize  Poem 
on  Death,  which  has  many  beauties.  Throughout  may  be  found  many 
noble  and  glowing  sentiments,  of  which  the  following  is  one  of  the 
most  striking,  and,  in  many  respects,  applicable  to  our  own  demigod  and 
demagogue-led  country. 

"  First  Envy,  eldest  born  of  Hell,  imbrued 
Her  hands  in  blood,  and  taught  the  sons  of  men 
To  make  a  death  which  Nature  never  made, 
And  God  abhorred,  with  violence  rude  to  break 
The  thread  of  life,  ere  half  its  length  was  run, 
And  rob  a  wretched  brother  of  his  being. 
With  joy  Ambition  saw,  and  soon  improved 
The  execrable  deed.     'T  was  not  enough 
By  subtle  fraud  to  snatch  a  single  life, 
Puny  impiety  !  whole  kingdoms  fell 
To  sate  the  lust  of  power  ;  more  horrid  still, 
The  foulest  stain  and  scandal  of  our  nature 
Became  its  boast. — One  murder  made  a  villain, 
Millions,  a  hero. — Princes  were  privileged 
To  kill,  and  numbers  sanctified  the  crime. 
Ah  !  why  will  kings  forget  that  they  are  men ! 
And  men  that  they  are  brethren  1     Why  delight 
In  human  sacrifice  T     Why  burst  the  ties 
Of  nature,  that  should  knit  their  souls  together 
In  one  soft  bond  of  amity  and  love  1 
Yet  still  they  breathe  destruction,  still  go  on 
Inhumanly  ingenious  to  find  out 
New  pains  for  life,  new  terrours  for  the  grave, 
Artificers  of  Death  !     Still  monarchs  dream 
Of  universal  empire  growing  up 

From  universal  ruin Blast  the  design, 

Great  God  of  Hosts,  nor  let  thy  creatures  fall 
Unpitied  victims  at  Ambition's  shrine  !" 

Ocilvie  Avas  distinguished  for  his  learning,  genius,  and  piety,  but  his 


158 


English  Sacred  Poetry. 


[January, 


poetry  by  no  means  equals  the  expectations  which  his  numerous  and  ex- 
cellent prose  works  would  induce  us  to  entertain. 

On  Cowper,  one  of  the  most  descriptive  of  modern  poets,  and  per- 
haps the  most  effective  of  modern  satirists,  it  is  needless  to  comment : 
the  gentler  affections  of  his  heart  were  blighted  by  a  morbid  sensibility  ; 
and  the  greater  part  of  his  hours,  which  might  have  been  rendered  highly 
useful  to  mankind,  were  passed  in  a  cheerless  state  of  gloomy  appre- 
hension. Some  glimpses  of  sunshine,  however,  darted  across  the  me- 
lancholy clouds  which  enveloped  him,  and  to  these  we  are  indebted  for 
some  of  the  finest  poetry  that  adorn  our  language. 

That  extraordinary  and  indefatigable  divine,  the  Rev.  John  Newton, 
deservedly  occupies  a  station  contiguous  to  Cowper,  with  whom  he  con- 
tinued for  years  on  terms  of  the  closest  intimacy.  His  prose  works 
(which  consist  of  several  volumes)  are  terse,  powerful,  and  imaginative  ; 
his  poetry  partakes,  in  a  great  degree,  the  same  qualities. 

Scotia's  most  imaginative  child,  Robert  Burns,  who  is  the  only  one 
of  those  "  poets  of  nature,"  as  they  are  called,  who  may  be  fairly  said 
to  have  obtained  the  highest  rank  in  poesy,  seems,  in  spite  of  his  gene- 
rally dissipated  character,  to  have  been  impressed  with  serious  thoughts 
and  religious  feelings.  These,  it  is  true,  were  evanescent ;  yet,  while 
they  lasted,  they  gave  birth  to  the  following  effusions,  which  are  fraught 
with  genuine  poetry  and  piety,  apparently  the  most  sincere  and  unaf- 
fected. 

A  Prayer  written,  and  left  in  the  room  in  which  the  Author  slept  for  a  Night  at  the 
House  of  a  Friend.* 

"  0  thou  dread  Power,  who  reign'st  Their  hope,  their  stay,  their  darling 

above !  youth, 

I  know  thou  wilt  me  hear,  In  manhood's  dawning  blush  ; 

When  for  this  scene  of  peace  and  love  Bless  him,  thou  God  of  love  and  truth, 

I  make  my  prayer  sincere.  Up  to  a  parent's  wish. 


The  hoary  sire — the  mortal  stroke, 
Long,  long,  be  pleased  to  spare ; 

To  bless  his  little  filial  flock, 
And  show  what  good  men  are. 

She,  who  her  lovely  offspring  eyes 
With  tender  hopes  and  fears, 

0,  bless  her  with  a  mother's  joys, 
And  spare  a  mother's  tears  ! 


The  beauteous,  seraph,  sister-band, 

With  earnest  tears  I  pray, 
Thou  know'st  the  snares  on  ev'ry  hand, 

Guide  thou  their  steps  alway. 

When  soon  or  late  they  reach  that  coast, 
O'er  life's  rough  ocean  driv'n, 

May  they  rejoice,  no  wanderer  lost, 
A  family  in  Heav'n  !" 


From  "  the  Land  of  the  North"  also  came  Grahame,  well  known  as 
the  author  of  The  Sabbath,  a  Poem ;  in  which  may  be  found  many 
pleasing  passages.  The  following  short  extract  strikes  us  as  one  of  the 
most  poetic  in  the  volume  : 

"  But  chiefly  Man  the  day  of  rest  enjoys. 
Hail,  Sabbath!  thee  I  hail,  the  poor  man's  day  : 
On  other  days,  the  man  of  toil  is  doomed 
To  eat  his  joyless  bread,  lonely;  the  ground 
Both  seat  and  board  ;  screened  from  the  winter's  cold, 
And  summer's  heat,  by  neighbouring  hedge  or  tree ; 
But  on  this  day,  embosomed  in  his  home, 
He  shares  the  frugal  meal  with  those  he  loves ; 
With  those  he  loves  he  shares  the  heartfelt  joy 


*Dr  Laurie,  then  minister  of  the  parish  of  Loudon. 


1836.]  English  Sacred  Poetry.  159 

Of  giving  thanks  to  God, — not  thanks  of  form, 
A  word  and  a  grimace,  but  reverently, 
With  covered  face  and  upward  earnest  eye. 

Hail,  Sabbath  !  thee  I  hail,  the  poor  man's  day  : 
The  pale  mechanic  now  has  leave  to  breathe 
The  morning  air,  pure  from  the  city's  smoke, 
While,  wand'ring  slowly  up  the  river  side, 
He  meditates  on  Him,  whose  power  he  marks 
In  each  green  tree  that  proudly  spreads  the  bough 
As  in  the  tiny  dew-bent  flowers  that  bloom 
Around  its  roots  ;  and  while  he  thus  surveys, 
With  elevated  joy,  each  rural  charm, 
He  hopes,  yet  fears  presumption  in  the  hope, 
That  Heav'n  may  be  one  Sabbath  without  end." 

Henry  Kirk  White  is  a  name  that  will  be  imperishable  in  the  re- 
cords of  precocious  talent;  pious,  amiable,  and  learned,  yet  struggling 
against  numerous  evils  which  his  limited  means  could  not  fail  to  entail 
on  him  ;  his  fate  awakens  our  regret,  while  the  variety  and  the  solidity 
of  his  acquirements  excite  admiration  for  his  genius,  and  the  profound- 
est  respect  for  his  unwearied  application  and  moral  virtues.  Many  of 
his  poems  are  sacred,  and  eminently  distinguished  by  fervent  piety.  He 
contemplated,  and  indeed  commenced,  a  long  Divine  Poem,  entitled  The 
Christiad,  in  the  Spenserian  stanza ;  and  from  the  specimen  presented, 
we  regret  he  did  not  live  to  conclude  what  he  so  well  began.  His 
Hymns  (of  which  there  are  but  few)  are  perhaps  the  most  highly  finished 
of  any  of  his  productions  ;  the  one  we  now  submit  to  the  reader  is  at 
once  unaffectedly  pious  and  poetic. 

THE     STAR     OF     BETHLEHEM. 

"  When,   marshalled    on  the    nightly  Deep  horror  then  my  vitals  froze, 

plain,  Death-struck,  I  ceased  the  tide  to 

The  glittering  host  bestud  the  sky,  stem  ; 

One  Star  alone,  of  all  the  train,  When  suddenly  a  star  arose, 

Can  fix  the  sinner's  wandering  eye.         It  was  the  Star  of  Bethlehem. 

Hark  !  hark  !  to  God  the  chorus  breaks,  It  was  my  guide,  my  light,  my  all, 

From  every  host,  from  every  gem  ;  It  bade  my  dark  forebodings  cease ; 

But  one  alone  the  Saviour  speaks,  And  through  the  storm,  and  danger's 

It  is  the  Star  of  Bethlehem.  thrall, 

It  led  me  to  the  port  of  peace. 
Once  on  the  raging  seas  I  rode, 

The  storm  was  loud, — the  night  was  Now  safely  moored  ! — my  perils  o'er, 

dark,  I  '11  sing,  first  in  night's  diadem, 

The  ocean  yawned, — and  rudely  blowed  For  ever  and  for  evermore, 

The  wind  that  tossed  my  foundering  The  Star ! — The  Star  of  Bethlehem!" 
bark. 


EPIGRAM 

On  **  and  *#*,  who  never  depart  from   a  fixed  rule  of  business namely,  their 

own  avarice. 

In  return  for  your  dogma,  may  Death  and  the  Devil, 
To  whom  ye  are  bondslaves,  never  depart 
From  the  fixed  rule  that  whelms  ye  in  the  fire-sea  of  Evil, 
And  unmuzzles  the  demons  to  prey  on  your  heart. 
For  what  ye  forego  not,  should  ne'er  be  foregone, 
And  Hinnom  with  curses  should  welcome  her  son  ! 


1 60  [January, 

THE   PRIMA   DO'-NNA. 


A    TALE    OF     ITALY. 


From  the  Unpublished  Reminiscences  of  an  Amateur. 

Part   I. 

Where  steps  of  purest  marble  meet  the  wave ; 
Where,  through  tiie  trellises  and  corridors, 
Soft  music  came  as  from  Armida's  palace, 
Breathing  enchantment  o'er  the  woods,  the  waters. 

Rogers. 

The  Italian  poet  apostrophizes  the  spring  as  the  "  Gioventu  dell' 
anno."  In  Italy,  however,  the  fact  is  otherwise;  and  from  the  gene- 
rally mild  temperature  of  the  winters,  the  inhabitants  are  hardly  con- 
scious of  the  transition  from  winter  to  spring.  The  true  springtime  of 
the  year  in  Italy  is  after  the  first  rains  in  autumn,  when  all  nature 
awakens  refreshed  from  the  long  sleep  of  a  burning  summer.  The  ve- 
getable world  arrays  itself  in  a  new  mantle  of  vivid  green,  and  the  re- 
laxed fibres  of  animal  life,  braced  by  a  purer  atmosphere,  regain  their 
wonted  vigour  and  elasticity.  Then  it  is  that  all  who  possess  the  means 
abandon  the  shady  streets  and  cool  saloons  of  Italian  cities,  and  hasten 
to  enjoy  the  villeggiatura  in  the  environs,  or  in  the  small  and  rural 
towns  so  numerous  throughout  Italy. 

I  had  passed  the  hot  summer  of  177 — ,  in  Milan,  where  an  enthusi- 
astic fondness  for  vocal  music,  and  the  various  attractions  of  the  superb 
and  then  admirably  conducted  opera-house,  had  induced  me  to  linger 
for  a  period  far  exceeding  my  original  intention,  and  to  delay  from  day 
to  day  my  proposed  villeggiatura  at  a  friend's  villa  on  the  lake  of  Como. 
My  regular  attendance  at  La  Scala  had  made  me  acquainted  with  many 
of  the  performers  ;  but  a  congenial  gaiety  and  thoughtlessness  of  cha- 
racter had  drawn  me  into  closer  intimacy  with  the  first  tenor-singer,  a 
handsome,  and  still  young-looking  man,  of  four-and-thirty,  and  well 

known  to  the  musical  world  under  his  assumed  name  of  M i,  but 

whom  I  purpose  to  call  Romanelli,  his  mother's  name,  which  he  pre- 
ferred to  the  fictitious  one  beforementioned.  In  his  youth  and  early 
manhood,  he  had  been  a  chorister  at  St  Peter's,  and  had  undergone 
precisely  that  kind  of  discipline  in  singing  the  longdrawn  notes  of  Pa- 
lestrina  and  Allegri,  which  subsequently  made  him,  in  the  opinion  of 
all  sound  judges,  the  best  singer  of  his  time.  His  voice,  originally,  by 
his  own  confession,  of  limited  range  and  power,  had  been  expanded  and 
matured  by  the  admirable  training  of  the  Italian  schools,  into  wide  com- 
pass, severe  purity  of  tone,  and  great  facility  of  execution.  He  exer- 
cised, indeed,  an  equal  and  absolute  controul  over  every  note  ;  and,  whe- 
ther high  or  low,  loud  or  subdued,  his  tones  were  always  beautifully 
round  and  true.  He  possessed  also  the  rare  faculty  of  clearly  articulat- 
ing with  every  note  its  proper  syllable ;  making,  at  the  same  time,  each 
separate  letter  distinctly  audible.  But  these  merits  were,  according  to 
his  notions,  merely  mechanical ;  and  within  the  reach  of  any  one  pos- 
sessing a  good  ear,  a  tolerable  voice,  and  enduring  powers  of  applica- 
tion. The  peculiar  excellence  of  Romanelli  was  in  impassioned  music  : 
his  recitativo,  in  scenes  of  strong  excitement,  was  declamation  of  the 
highest  order ;  and  not  only  was  his  emphasis  rhetorically  just,  but  his 


% 


/ 


QUARTERLY  LIST  OF  NEWjSUBSCRIBF.RS  TO  N.  A.  MAGA. 


$5 


Philadelphia,  Pa 
J.  E.  James,      -    - 
John  S.  Filchett, 
Charles  B.  Boberts, 
Chas.  Naylor,      -    -    5 
Mrs  Rebecca  Hood, 
American  Fire  Insu- 
rance Company, 
David  Levine,      -    -    6 
Mrs  J.  Lardner, 
William  Kirk, 
James  G.  Clark, 
Mrs  C.  L.  Smith,  -  -    5 
Mrs  T.  N.  Smith,  5 

T.  M.  Rush,  ...  5 
Joseph  Hacker,  -  -  5 
John  W.  Ashmead,  5 
Crawford  Riddell,  5 

R.  K.  Scott,    -    -    -    5 
R.  Watkinson,     -     -     5 
Aug:  Barton,  jr. 
P.  S.  Whitney,    -    -    5 
Wm.  N.  Lacey, 
Thomas  C.  Loud, 
MrDeland,     .    -    -     5 
James  Goodman,      -    5 

C.  Harper, 
William  B.  Hart, 
Samuel  P.  Cropper,       5 
John  Latour,   -    -    -    5 
Mrs.  W.  McClung, 

Dr  I.  S.  Mause, 

Mrs  Mary  A.  Thompson, 

M.  M.  Russell, 

Mrs  J.  N.  Dickson, 

J.  Bigonet,    -    -    -     $5 

A.  Quervelle,     -    -      5 

F.  Stoever, 

Frederick  Gaul,      -      5 

Davis  &  White, 

J.  G.  Osbome, 

Conrad  Hester. 

Harrisburg,  Pa. 

D.  Krouse,  -  -  $ft 
Theo:  Fenn, 

S.  D.  Patterson,        -    5 
Henry  R.  Strong, 
W.  Milnor  Roberts,        5 
J.  Q.  A.  Remberger. 

York,  Pa. 
A.  C  Ramsey, 
W.  H.  Kurtz,      -    -    5 
John  J.  Allen, 
J.B.Webb,    ---    5 
Mrs.  M.  L.  Spangler,    5 
Andrew  Duncan,       -    5 
Hon.  C.  A.  Barnitz,      5- 

Beading,  Pa. 
D.  Hen,    -    -    -       $5 
Hon.H.A.Muhlenburg,  5 
John  S.  Heister,  - 
Elijah  Dechertj    - 
J.  L.  Dunn,     -    - 
George  M.  Keim, 
Jacob  Hoffman,    - 
Judge  Richards,  - 
Reading  Library  Co., 


So 
5 
5 
5 
5 
5 
5 


Levi  Heister,  -  -  5 
Samuel  S.  Jackson,  -  5 
Geo:  D.  B.  Keim,  ^  5 
Marks  John  Biddle,       5 

Jjincatter,  Pa. 
-Hon.  Jas.  Buchanan,     5 
A.  Reigart,      ...    5 
William  Coleman,    -     5 
Rev.  Martin  Bruner,        - 
Hugh  Maxwell, 
George  Mayer,     -    -    5 
H.  G.  Long,    -    -    -    5 

New  York, 
John  F.  Mackie,       -    5 
A.  Hutchins, 
DrJ.  M.S.McKnight,  ft 
Mrs  John  Aymar, 
Mrs  VanNostrand, 
Mrs  John  Van  Nostrand, 
Mrs  D.  J.  Stryker, 
Mrs  Lincoln, 
George  Webb, 

E.  J.  Webb, 
R.  Dodge, 
Thomas  Harrison, 
Chas.  L.  Arcularius,  $5 
Capt.  Chas.  H.  Barnard. 

Baltimore,  Md. 
Elisha  Lee,  -    -    5 

John  Curlet,  -  -  -  5 
Mrs  C.  Winchester^",  5 
Gen.  Samuel  Smith, 

(Mayor,)      -    -    -    5 
Mrs  Anna  M.  H«ll, 
Dr  Rob't  A.  Durkee,      5 
Henry  Didier,      -    -    5 
Mrs  Ellen  Taylor,    -    5 
H.  P.  Sumner, '    -    -    5 
Columbus  O'Donnell, 
Mrs  J.  G.  Davies,     -    5 
Washington  City,  D.  C. 
J.  Gales,    -    -    -       $5 
Hon. J.P.King,  -    -    5 
Department  of  State,     5 
Geo:  W.  Graham,%  -    5 
Henry  Stone,  -    -    -    5 
Richard  S.  Coxe,     -     5 
J.  B.  Gorman,      -    -    5 
G.  S.  Pendleton,       -    5 
Gen.  R.  Jones,     -    -    5 
Brown  &Tastel,  -    -    5 
S.  R.  Hobbie,      -    -    6 
R.  Mayo,    -    -    -    -    5 
Mrs  Seaton, 
Hon.  E.  Herring, 
Hon.  C.  Gratiot, 
Judge  Anderson,       -    5 

Georgetown,  D.  C.  ■ 
Gen.  W.  Smith, 
C.  Cox,      ....    5 
Mrs  John  Mason, "    -    5 
Mrs  Maria  Clarke,    -    5 
Mrs  L.  S.  English,    -    5 

F.  Dodge,  ----  5 
E.  Ferris, 

Geo:  R.  Mowry. 


Petersburg,  Fa. 

D.  Patterson,  -     -    -  5 

M.  A.  Armistead,      -  5 

J.  D.  Townes,      -    -  5 
R.  W.  Reany, 
L.  H.  Goodrich, 

Andrew  Kevan,    -    -  5 

Nicholas  N.  Moore,  5 

N.  Mason  Martin,     -  5 

Charles  Boswell,      -  5 

J.  J.  Brown  &  Co.,    -  5 

S.  Mordecai,   -    -    -  5 

Bichmomd,  Va. 

Hon.  L.  W.Tazewell,  5 

Hon.  B.  W.  Leigh,  -  5 

C.  Johnson,  -  -  -  5 
Mrs  Thomas  Green,  5 
Mrs  J.  G.  MosVy,     -  5 

D.  Briggs,  ...  5 
Robert  Stanard,  -  -  5 
Wm.  H.  Macfarland,  S 
Mrs  A.  Warwick,  -  5 
Judge  Tucker,  -  -  5 
P.  Harrison,  -  -  -  5 
Mrs  N.  Denby, 

Mrs  M.  A.  Allen,     -  5 

Mrs  G.  A.  Myers,     -  5 

Misses  Hays,       -    -  5 

Mrs  M.  B.  Du  Val,  5 

Henry  Ludlam,    -    -  5 

James  MrKUdoe,      -  ft 

George  N.  Tompkins,  5 

B.  L.  Belt.  -  -  6 
Rev.  William  F.  Lee,  5 
Charles  S.  Gay,  -,  -  5 
John  D/  Graff,      -    -  5 

C.  E.  Miller,  -  -  -  5 
John  Jennings,  -  -  5 
Henry  W.  Quarles,  5 
Thomas  M.  Smith,  -  5 
0.  Williams,  -  -  -  5 
Dr  Pirot, 

P.  Robinson,  -    -    -  5 

Henry  Clarke,      -    -  ft 

John  H.  Eustace,     -  5 

R.  S.  Massie,       -    -  5 

Wm.  Mitchell,  jr.     -  5 

ft   M.  Sully,    -    -    -  o 

Naqpdk,  Va. 

Dr  N.  C.  Whitehead,  5 

Robert  E.  Taylor,    -  ft 

Elisha  Gamage,  -    -  5 

B.  Hanis.  -    -    -    -  ft 

Walter  De  Lacey,    -  ft 

-     -    -  5 

Walter  1'.  Jones, P.M.  5 

J.  W.  Slack,   ...  ft 

Annapolis,  Aid. 
R.  Swann,  -  -  -  $5 
Honorable  Chancel- 
lor Bland,  -  -  -  5 
Wm.  H.  Fitzhugh,  5 
Hon.  Judge  Buchanan,  5 
Thomas  Duchett,  -  5 
Thomas  Franklin,  -  5 
Samuel  Maynard,  -  5 
Col.  H.  Maynardier,  5 


C  Continued  on  the.  second  page  of  this  Number.  J 


Sv 


Makers 

rac"se,  2v    v 


